Batman: We Get Along
by iammemyself
Summary: Edward Nygma wasn't sure of his new roommate at first. He comes to wonder what he ever did without him.
1. Part the First

Batman: We Get Along

Indiana

Characters: Riddler, Scarecrow [Scriddler]

Synopsis: Edward Nygma wasn't sure of his new roommate at first. He comes to wonder what he ever did without him.

Part the First

The first few months were not remotely amicable.

Jonathan Crane was a cold man from the second Edward saw him. It was worse than when Victor was allowed into genpop; _this_ man sent the chill down your spine. His thin body almost made you feel cold just looking at it, his face was set and hard, and even his eyes were of the palest blue and cold, with an odd and unsettling luminosity to them. One of those older men who had looked at the world and decided they hated it. And he hated Edward too, Edward could feel it; Jonathan Crane hated Edward, the Asylum, the city, and probably the whole damn world itself.

He was hostile, in an implicit sort of way. He would spend hours in near-motionless silence, eyes fixed on a book from behind large circular glasses, and when asked to do anything would evaluate the asker with a penetrating stare before moving. He spoke and listened to no one, borderline refused to take part in the group therapy sessions, and the few hours a night he slept Edward was unsure of whether he was asleep or whether he'd actually died. Sometimes Edward thought he _must_ have; it wasn't until the third week that Edward actually saw him eat.

For his part, Edward did not like the roommate situation in general. Edward was not necessarily a loner by any means, but he found most people trite and boring. He often got into fights with his roommate, both physical and verbal, and it was because of this that Edward was on the top of the… well, he was _at_ the top of the transfer rotation list. What this meant was that anyone who was not getting along was transferred by rotation to a new cell every two weeks, in the hopes that the staff could find the one inmate in the building the ones who needed transferring could get along with. Edward had not really agreed with his place on top of the list – Joker belonged there, but he was almost always in solitary – and he did not agree at all with the notes as to why he was there, such as, _Ability to antagonise inanimate objects_ , _picks fights with people twice his size because… ?_ , _constant talking gives other roommates migraines, 'The riddles, Dr Leland_ , _the_ riddles!' _, hides roommates' bedsheets in a place we have yet to discover,_ and _knows when to quit but refuses to do so because he is, according to Dr Prud'Homme, 'A certified asshole'._ Edward mostly disagreed with the last part. Medically certifying someone an asshole was impossible, even if he were one, which he wasn't. And how was it _his_ fault no one could find the bedsheets? He had left clues!

Now, as far as roommates went, Crane was not the worst he'd ever had, but he was certainly the most boring. He never so much as looked at Edward, which was aggravating. Fine, they didn't have to have a daily chat, but could he not return Edward's greetings? Wave now and again? And why, God, _why_ did he read so _slowly?_ It was like trying to watch a snail cross the street! Even when half of the page was a diagram it took him five minutes _minimum_ to look at the diagram. It was one of the many things about the Asylum that drove him up the wall, but since he had to put up with it every day it was certainly the most irritating.

Sometimes the irritation got the best of Edward. Sometimes he couldn't stand not having pencil and paper or something to build or at least fiddle with, and it was at those times he had to start counting. He called it counting, but it was really more like calculating. But he had to wait until night came because to do the counting, he needed chalk.

The Asylum held courses for the interns and the trainees and the security guards, both training courses and those for CPR and first aid and the like, so there was a smattering of classrooms near the section of the Asylum where the regular people were treated. The Asylum at night was not generally too looked after, so when it took Edward's fancy he would leave and take care of things if he were so inclined. One of the main things he had to do was check the emails from his informants, and the news in Gotham City in general. His reading speed was extremely high and he had perfect recall, so he never needed to linger on the computers long, though sometimes if he was feeling particularly leisurely he would sit and play a game of Go over the Internet with whomever happened to be online at the time. He much preferred playing against South Koreans.

Another thing the classrooms held was chalk. When Edward was out of the Asylum he preferred to use paint, because it helped a little more than chalk, but he had to take what he could get. And that was what he could get.

The Asylum unfortunately did not order in green chalk, only white and occasionally blue, which was another reason the chalk was not as helpful as the paint. Purple also worked in a pinch, but the only doctor who brought in purple chalk brought it right back out again, leaving Edward to stare at the leftover purple marks on her blackboard in frustration.

Edward had caught up on his news last night and had some chalk in one of his stashes, so he didn't need to venture out too far that night. Once he'd acquired the chalk and locked the cell door again – he had long since disabled the electronic alarm and programmed the system to believe it was still operational – he stood up on the bedrail and pressed the chalk to the wall as high as he could reach. Within his properties he had ladders and scissorlifts for construction he also used for this, but here he had to make do with a bed that was bolted to the floor. It was a little discouraging but nothing could be done.

The irritation began to ease as soon as he started the count with a perfect new piece of chalk, moving to the right as far as he could reach and then starting a new line beneath the first where he couldn't. There was a soothing rhythm to it that he lost himself in a little bit by the time he got to the fifth line. That was, until he heard someone say, "What is that?"

Edward was so startled that he lost his balance on the bedrail and fell onto the mattress, which was not a very good one but which still pitched him onto the floor. With a curling lip he retrieved his glasses and saw that the chalk had snapped in half. "What's wrong with you?" he snapped at Crane, picking himself up off the floor. Crane was sitting cross-legged again, glasses glinting. Even the man's voice was cold, quiet and yet demanding, somehow, that you pay attention to it no matter what the volume.

" _I'm_ not the one writing numbers on the wall in the middle of the night."

"I can hardly do it in the middle of the day, can I?" He'd been caught at night before, but since it was one of the more harmless activities he could have been engaging in, all that usually happened was that his chalk was confiscated and the numbers left there until he was out for some daytime activity and the cleaners could do their jobs.

"It looks familiar," Crane said. "I can't quite place it."

Edward was in no mood to talk to Crane now, of all times, when he finally had a chance to do something he needed to do in this damn nuthouse, so he merely picked up the half of the chalk containing the end he'd been using and continued his counting. By the time he ran out of space on that wall, the chalk was barely big enough to be pressed between his fingertips.

"Is it finished?"

Edward rolled his eyes. "No, it's not _finished_ ," he answered in disgust. "It doesn't _have_ an end."

Crane's head followed the line of numbers as slowly as though it were on a page in front of him. "I wasn't a math major, I'm afraid. This only holds some passing recognition for me."

Edward put the chalk on the floor and sat on the side of the bed. He was still wary of the man, but at least he recognised there was significance in what Edward had put on the wall. Most of his other roommates had just laughed and called him crazy. "It's _pi_. Up to the three hundred sixty-seventh digit."

The movement of Crane's head to meet Edward's face was the fastest out of him Edward had seen yet. "Fascinating," he said, and he actually sounded like he thought it was. "You memorised it all the way up to there."

"No," Edward corrected. "I know _pi_ to the six thousandth digit. But it would be very difficult to write all of that down."

"Why do it? Why memorise all of those numbers? Surely you can't _use_ them for anything."

"Because I can."

"Hm. Perhaps you aren't as stupid as I thought you were."

Edward could not believe he'd heard such a thing. "Excuse me?"

"You're a certified genius, I know," Crane told him coolly. "But believe you me, there are many stupid geniuses in the world."

"So you decided to talk just to insult me. Wonderful. Why don't you do us _both_ a favour and go right back to pretending you're invisible." He brought his legs up and lay down on the bed, crossing his arms.

"No, I spoke to you to find out what that number was. The world doesn't revolve around you, you know. Consider it. Additionally, I never said _you_ were a stupid genius; I in fact told you that I was re-evaluating my opinion. Perhaps you believe _yourself_ to be such a thing."

"Are you kidding me?" Edward demanded, glaring over at him. He was still sitting there, infuriatingly calm. "Why the hell would I think that?"

"It's anyone's guess. Except for yours, I suppose. You would know. Perhaps. There are many things about people that they don't know."

That was true. He wasn't going to admit that, though.

"Why are you here, Edward?" The question, though intrusive, was asked in an almost soothing way. As though Crane were doing him a favour by asking. "Surely a man like you has great things to accomplish."

"The great things I'm accomplishing are apparently illegal, immoral, and unreasonably cruel." Said the people who didn't appreciate the beauty of a well-made puzzle room, or the complex dignity of a clever cipher, or the intricacies of a perfectly-worded riddle.

"Ah," Crane said. "But you think they're beautiful, don't you."

"They are," Edward told him, despite himself. "But you know how people are. Won't understand something unless it's nauseatingly easy."

"Oh yes," agreed Crane.

Edward turned onto his side now. "What is it for you?"

He could feel Crane's scrutiny. After a further pause he answered, "Fear."

"Fear," Edward repeated.

"You wouldn't understand," Crane said. "Most people don't."

"I'm not most people," Edward snapped back, "and there's _nothing_ I don't understand."

"You're entirely too easy," Crane said after a long silence. "You have the most outrageous ego I've ever seen."

"I don't!"

"Trust me. You do."

And he refused to say another word after that.

Until the following night, where Edward's fingers were itching to use the rest of the chalk before it was discovered. He didn't like it when that happened but it was one of those things he couldn't help.

Crane watched as he wrote out a different sequence of numbers, on the wall facing the door of the cell, waiting only until he had begun the second line on Crane's side of the room before asking, "And this?"

Edward considered mirroring Crane's usual response of silence because, quite frankly, he didn't feel in the mood to be polite, but Crane was the only person in the entire Asylum who had ever asked about it and not just written it off as one of those silly things the Riddler did, so he answered, "Prime numbers."

"You memorise prime numbers?"

"I don't have to _memorise_ them," Edward said, brow creasing. "They're not that hard to figure out."

"Is it only numbers you can do?"

"I could do other things if I wanted," Edward told him, trying to imagine where he was going with this. "I just prefer numbers." On top of that, they looked less suspicious than diagrams.

"Do you know what a Punnett square is?"

"Yes," Edward sighed, "I did pass grade ten science, thank you."

"And chemical equations?"

"...yes." His reluctance wasn't due to the fact he thought they were difficult; of course they weren't. But they were untidy. A mess of numbers and letters and notation. When he'd had his science exams a long time ago, he had always done the chemistry sections first.

"May I?" Crane asked, and he held his hand out. It was hardly more than bone wrapped in a tenuous layer of skin, like the rest of him. Edward hesitated.

"I'm not going to gouge your eye out with it. I'm going to show you something."

Edward had actually had someone try to do that, not that Crane looked like he had the strength to. He looked like he was held together on the inside with string. He just didn't want to lose possession of his chalk. But he crossed to his side of the room and put it into Crane's hand anyway, and he proceeded to write out quite an untidy equation indeed. But it was all evenly written out, and legible. This man had extensive experience with blackboards or whiteboards.

"That," Crane said, "is the equation for fear."

Edward inspected it for a minute. Chemistry was one of the things he had a bit more than a working knowledge of, but it had never bound his interest enough to study it deeply. "It looks difficult to balance," he said finally, "and quick to degrade. If you wanted to dispense this… _fear_ immediately it would be fine, but... I doubt it would last very long." He chewed the inside of his tongue a little. "Chemistry isn't something I'm overly well versed with, so make what you will of that."

"No, you're exactly right!" Crane said, and he sounded excited for some reason Edward wasn't sure of. "That's what happened. It wasn't as potent the next day. You _do_ understand. Fascinating."

"I told you I would," Edward said, somewhat indignantly. Crane waved his hand dismissively.

"Plenty of people say they understand things they don't understand. The next one I was working on I believed would have fared better, but I didn't get the chance to finish." He wrote another equation the wall, and rather than watch him do that Edward studied his hand. He was holding his wrist so that his hand was entirely separate from the wall. A trait of someone who was trying to get as little chalk dust on himself as possible.

"What do you think?" Crane asked, looking at him.

"You were a chemistry teacher," Edward said instead. Crane looked taken aback.

"Not quite. You're half correct. My minor was in chemistry."

"And your major?" Edward pressed. Crane considered him for a minute.

"You like games, don't you? I'll let you guess. You'll probably think of it soon enough."

"Sounds like I'm not the only one who likes games," Edward grumbled, and Crane actually smiled.

"I like mind games. Now what do you think of this? I know chemistry isn't your strong suit. But you were able to read the other one and critique it. You obviously have the ability to work these things out."

Edward reluctantly read it over. Crane wanted his opinion on an unfinished chemical equation? All right. Edward would bite. It was odd, but he'd been asked for weirder things.

"I think you need a bonding agent. These two," he indicated with two fingers on the same hand, "aren't going to play nice."

Crane nodded. "Precisely what I was thinking."

Edward folded his arms. "Then why did you ask me?"

"I was gauging your intelligence and was not disappointed. May I keep this?" He held up the chalk.

Edward was tired and had no intention of using it further. "You'll have to steal your own next time. And you have to wipe that off when you're done. You get put in solitary for stuff like that."

"Chemistry?"

"Scheming," Edward said, lying down on his bed and raising finger quotes.

"Ah," Crane said. "Thank you for telling me."

"You're not the worst roommate I've ever had," Edward related grudgingly.

"But you're the worst everyone else has had."

"That's a matter of opinion."

"No, that's what they told me when they put me here."

Edward scowled and didn't dignify it with anything else.

"I think they were wrong, though. Good night."

And Edward fell asleep to the sound of the chalk scratching on the wall.

When Edward woke up his head was on the floor, looking in Crane's general direction, which was normal. Edward had been described by many people as an active sleeper and was likely to end up in a place far from where he'd fallen asleep to start with. But the wall next to Crane was covered in chemistry equations, and that was _definitely_ not normal. He cursed under his breath and pressed his glasses into his face as he scrambled across the room. He climbed onto Crane's bed, trying to avoid the man's legs - he slept sitting up against the headrail with one of his knees bent, and even _then_ they were unconscionably long - and rubbed at the wall with his arm. Jonathan woke up, startled.

"What in the world are you doing?" His voice was even more quiet than usual, strained with sleep.

"I told you, you can't leave this here!" Edward hissed. "Do you _want_ to go to solitary?"

"It can't be _that_ bad."

"It's you, the dark, and a straightjacket. Trust me, it's pretty bad." Crane must have written the equations while on his knees and he'd _still_ reached up pretty high.

"Why do _you_ care if I go to solitary or not?"

"Next one on my rotation is Lynns. I'm not sharing with Lynns again!"

"Lynns?"

"Firefly. Yes, he will try to set you on fire."

"So you've shared with everyone."

"Just about." Edward's arm was getting sore so he switched to the other one. He was a little annoyed that Crane wasn't even moving to help.

"Joker?"

He paused. "No one shares with him. He's kept in Extreme Isolation, upstairs. When he's here. He left three months ago."

"Do you fear him?"

Edward finished the rest with the heel of his left hand. "Anyone who's smart does. And anyone who's smart doesn't trust him, either."

That was when Madison of the morning rounds called, "Jonathan, is he bothering you?"

Edward realised he could potentially look like he was attempting to wrestle Crane into submission, standing over him like he was, and he hoped that Crane would not sell him out so quickly. He really was not eager to be set on fire again.

"No," Jonathan said, to Edward's unabashed surprise. "He's been no trouble at all."

"Right," Madison said, rolling her eyes, but she went on her way.

"Why did you say that?" Edward demanded when she was out of earshot. Crane remained infuriatingly calm.

"Because you aren't. Besides. You want off the rotation list, don't you?"

"... yes."

"Then you should have no issue with what I said. You get to stay here and I don't have to be put in with some hopeless idiot. Perfect symbiosis. Now get off of my bed, please."

"You're welcome," Edward snarled, climbing over the rail at the foot of the bed. Crane's voice was even when he said,

"I didn't thank you."

It took Edward a few more days, but he thought he had figured out exactly what Crane had been before he had been sent to the Asylum. It took some careful observation, and a little bit of gossip with the guards he was friendly with, but the pieces seemed right. Crane was allowing himself to fade into the background so that he could get the measure of everyone in the building, and thus to know who to ally himself with. He never spoke to anyone, never participated in anything, and spent as much time as possible reading. Except that he wasn't _actually_ reading, outside of his shared cell; Edward had caught him glancing upward a time or two when he was supposedly engrossed in his book. He was listening. Silently, carefully listening.

Of course, the easy way to have figured Crane out would have been to just ask which books he was so laboriously poring over, but Edward couldn't have that. He did inquire about it, but only after he was certain he already knew. Unobtrusive observation, the obvious intelligence, the endless studying… the man was a researcher. Taking his sparse conversations with Edward into account, his area of study was psychology. And he had confirmed his position as a teacher. Crane had once been a professor of psychology at one of the universities.

Edward was allowed his deck of cards that week and so was using the cards to build a house with; there weren't enough to really make anything worthy of him, but he wasn't in the mood for Solitaire. Besides that, he had a need to build something, even if it was just a shoddy house made of laminated paper. He could feel Crane's eyes on him, but he ignored them.

For a minute. He apparently had Crane's attention and he was going to do something with it. "Why do you read so slowly?" he asked, without looking up.

Crane took long enough to answer that Edward glanced over to see why… and that was when he realised he'd taken the bait. He frowned and looked back at the cards.

"I like to take the time to absorb the information," Crane answered. "If I don't understand it, if I don't connect the new thoughts to old ones, I will not remember what I read and that makes the reading largely a waste of time. And on top of that, it's hardly a race."

"In the time it takes you to read one book I could have read _several_."

"Congratulations. I'm sure your parents are proud."

 _That_ was a punch in the gut he didn't need. "No need to be facetious."

"My goodness," Crane declared, "I've not heard anyone use _that_ word in a sentence in my entire life. Tell me, is it something you use casually or were you just trying to show me up again?"

"Why don't you tell me, Professor Crane?" Edward said in answer, looking him right in those odd eyes, and Crane smiled and put the book aside.

"Who told you? That young woman you were chatting up on Wednesday morning? How they don't see through you I've yet to know."

"No," Edward said, insulted. "I figured it out myself. I was asking her for black licorice. I've run out."

"That sounds rather innocent, for a supercriminal such as yourself."

Edward leaned back against the bedframe. "Are you leading into something, or are you just making fun of me?"

"Both," said Crane. "The barter system around here is not something I've been able to observe offhand, and black licorice is ghastly."

"Black licorice is a delicious and guilt-free snack!" Edward protested. "And of _course_ you've seen people bartering. Things are passed hand over hand all the time."

"Not like _that_ ," Crane said dismissively. "The way you do it. But without the flirting. You have a network."

"Sometimes I do it the other way," Edward told him. "I'm just extremely skilled at sleight of hand. But you're not going to be able to do it my way."

"And why is that?"

The corner of Edward's mouth curled upward. "They're not going to work for you over me."

"And what makes you think that," Crane said evenly, though Edward got the impression that he had pushed Crane a little by saying that. Crane didn't like the thought that he couldn't do what Edward was doing, which was… interesting, to say the least.

"You can't give them a reason good enough. No one is going to leave comfortable employment with an outstanding boss to work for a man they don't know and has no history whatsoever."

Crane shook his head and picked the book up again. "Your self-aggrandising is tiresome. A shame, because otherwise you're a quite remarkable young man."

Edward was shocked silent for a moment. Then his brain recovered and he understood what Crane was trying to do.

"You're not going to be able to manipulate me like that. I'm not stupid. I know better."

Crane looked up somewhat serenely. "I wasn't trying to manipulate you. No need to be paranoid."

Edward snorted. "In here? Of course there is."

"You surely know that I've been biding my time. Evaluating who to throw my hand in with, so to speak."

"Obviously. Though that might come back to bite you." Edward scratched the end of his nose. "You're waiting a very long time to find allies. That makes people suspicious, and you're getting a reputation as a guy who only looks out for himself."

"I didn't really want my ally of choice to be broadly known anyway."

Edward heaved a breath and began gathering the cards. He was bored of this too, and tired.

"You should probably let them know soon before they write you off as someone not to bother with. You weren't supposed to be on this floor anyway. They ran out of room with the garden-variety loons again. You got lucky. You could've been put with someone who would have killed you without a second thought." He put the cards underneath the bed and pulled himself onto it, pulling his glasses off his face.

"I was indeed fortunate," Crane said, the sudden volume of his voice making Edward jump, and he was _right there on Edward's bed!_ He had been absolutely _silent!_ "But not for that reason. You see, Edward, the ally I wish to throw in with is you."

Edward stared.

"That's a very bad idea," he said finally.

"I hardly think so." He spread his hands. "Think it over. I don't have much to offer as yet, but I will. You don't have the same… clout as other people might have, but you have _resources_ , both physical and not so. Most of all, you've a brain in that head of yours, though you scarce seem to use it to its potential. I've been warned time and time again about you, and associating with you, but I've concluded you and I would mutually benefit each other quite well."

"So long's we don't start having meetings in genpop, no one will know unless somebody tells them," Edward said, propping his head up on one arm. Crane had both insulted and complimented him at the same time, and he didn't know if he should be flattered or wary. "And I'm not going to say anything."

Crane smiled.

"Nor will I," he said. He extended one of his spindly hands for Edward to shake. It shook slightly and Edward wondered what had caused such a thing. Crane did not seem like the type to be nervous. Edward took it and had to hold off a shudder. His hand was incredibly cold. "I sincerely hope you will be removed from the rotation list, Edward. You and I have much to accomplish."

"I was taken off it a month ago," Edward said. "Not because I was well-behaved, but because, and I quote from Dr Prud'Homme, ' _Crane is the only one in here who can put up with Nygma's shit._ '"

"I learned to ignore people a long time ago," Crane said, "but you don't happen to be one of them. And if you're suspicious, which you probably are given I am more chatty now that I have been these past four months, there's no need. The observation period is over and I've made my decision. Be aware that I am no good with riddles. I only know two, and whether I remember the answers on any given day is up in the air."

"That's fine," Edward said, putting the other hand behind his head as well. "I've yet to find someone who has any interest in riddles." Which was their loss, really, but he still wished someone would appreciate them for once.

Crane crossed the room again and sat on his bed, in the corner where he slept, but taking his book with him. He opened it and returned to reading.

"Why do you sleep like that? Both the sitting up and the leaving your glasses on."

Crane considered him a moment. "I'm sure you've noticed I have insomnia."

"Of course." There was no way a man who looked that tired all the time _didn't_.

"I find I sleep better when I don't try. So I just read and wait."

"Don't you get tired of reading?"

Crane seemed to have been rendered speechless, which was a first. "Get _tired_ of _reading_?" he repeated finally.

Edward shrugged. "Wouldn't you rather… _do_ something with what you read, instead of just moving onto another subject all the time?"

"Oh, I do," Crane answered, "but sometimes you have to wait. So I learn, and I wait, and the opportunity arises when it sees fit."

That made sense. It wasn't something Edward saw himself doing, but Crane seemed to take things a great deal slower, with a lot of deliberation. He seemed determined to ensure he didn't make a mistake, in any way, for any reason. And in all the months he'd been in the Asylum, Edward didn't think he'd made one. Any ribbing had worn off within the first week, he hadn't been assaulted in the shower or the hallway despite his obvious frailty, and the general opinion of him seemed to be that you could not trust him but you didn't want to be in a room alone with him, either.

Maybe _Edward_ had been the lucky one when they had been unable to keep Crane downstairs.


	2. Part the Second

Part the Second

Jonathan, as Edward started to think of him, was a lot less hostile now that he had made his decision; he still didn't return Edward's good mornings with much more than a cursory nod, but now Edward realised that was more because the man was not a morning person than because he was being impolite. Jonathan hated mornings with a passion and was not ready to engage in anything with anyone for at least an hour and a half after he got up, depending on how much sleep he'd gotten that night. That didn't stop Edward from being his wonderfully pleasant self, of course. Being polite was a virtue and really should have no dependence on what other people were doing.

Jonathan was very, very much a night person, naturally or due to his insomnia Edward didn't know. That was not terribly well synchronised, as Edward was very much a day person and functioned best with ten hours of sleep, but at least Jonathan had the courtesy to understand that Edward didn't fall asleep at two in the morning to be rude or escape the conversation, which Edward had been accused of before by other people after they had woken him back up again. The more Edward thought about it, the more he decided he and Jonathan were very similar. Both of them had certain passions that the general public had decided they were crazy for, and they'd been sent to the Asylum for ridiculous reasons, really. Sure, Jonathan had been sent to the Asylum for gassing his university with a toxin intended very much to scare the people there to death, but how else was he supposed to do a trial on a chemical he clearly wouldn't be able to test in a typical setting! It made perfect sense to Edward and he was obviously sane. The only criminal thing Jonathan had done was commit a fashion crime. His costume was made of burlap! And there was actual straw in it! Edward asked about this with great incredulity, and Jonathan had actually laughed a little.

"Yes, that's true," Jonathan answered, putting his book aside carefully and folding his fingers together like he always did. Jonathan wasn't annoyed by Edward's questions, most of the time. He would nearly always answer them with gravity. Jonathan seemed to like it when Edward asked him things, odd as it sounded. Jonathan seemed to appreciate Edward's curiosity and need to know, and he would satisfy it when he was asked. There were times he would just glare at Edward until he allowed Jonathan silence again, but Edward was learning when those times were. Overall, Jonathan was actually a wonderful roommate. His preferred subjects were fear, psychology, and chemistry, in that order, but he was willing to discuss just about anything. Edward fully believed Jonathan was the smartest man in the Asylum, after himself of course. His intelligence was quiet, but fierce. "Not all of it is actually straw. Some of them are toxin ampules. If someone shuffles that costume around too much, we'll know about it." And this time when he laughed something seemed to crawl up Edward's spine, and he shivered.

"I heard you were the man to go to if I needed something. And I actually heard that. I'm not making it up to flatter you."

Edward had to wonder if he was bringing this up again right now because Edward had acquired his black licorice and was in fact chewing on it that very moment. "That's because I am. What do you need?"

"That's because I am. What do you need?"

"A lockpick. And I need you to show me how to use it."

Edward almost laughed at the ease of the request. It was almost innocent, too, in a way. And the blunt asking of it... being straight out asked for things like that had been used to trap Edward in acts of so-called wrong-doing in the past, but with this man it just seemed to be his usual overabundance of blunt honesty.

"Done. We can take care of that tomorrow night. There's some medical equipment locked up in the basement you'd probably like a look at. Was that all?"

He sat down on Edward's bed, and it seemed that, if he stretched them out, his legs would cross half the room. Edward had not yet had the need to stand up next to him, and he hoped he never did. He had more or less come to terms with his height by now, but he wasn't sure just yet if Jonathan was the type to rib him about it or not. Honestly he seemed to be that person who will bring it up when he felt terrible, just to make him feel even worse.

"No. I need a cup of coffee, if you can. I'm sorely in need of one."

Edward almost laughed. He got that request a lot. Especially from new inmates. Edward disliked stimulants, even caffeine, so he didn't drink the stuff himself. But many people who lived on it before the Asylum were desperate for it after they were admitted. Coffee was too unpredictable a substance for Asylum staff to keep available. It was hard for Edward to get mostly because he had to convince one of the Asylum staff to give up _their_ coffee, which often required a great deal of cajoling.

"Sure. Give me a couple of days on that one."

Jonathan folded his hands together. His expression was sombre. "I don't... have anything to pay you with."

Edward waved a generous hand. He really _didn't_ know how things worked yet. Edward considered monetary compensation _insulting_. "You repay me with favours. I have plenty of money."

"What exactly do these... favours entail," Jonathan asked cautiously. He had rights to be. Many people asked for more... unscrupulous things than Edward did.

"Forewarning, not selling me out, freedom of passage, that kind of thing." He shrugged. "But information, mostly. Any kind."

"And what do you do with this information." His eyes were steady. Searching for something. He needn't have bothered. Edward found himself wanting to be honest with Jonathan. His intelligence was... rare. He wasn't a genius, not at all, but close to, and almost certainly in his chosen field. Edward didn't even mind his standoffish manner, because that's all it was, a manner; Jonathan was actually a careful, devoted listener, in a way Edward could relate to. Even when he appeared to be ignoring everyone around him, Jonathan was paying attention. Almost as if he had to. It must have been the researcher, the psychologist in him. It was sneaky, and a little underhanded, but most of all clever. Edward thought, maybe - maybe, mind you - he could learn something from this man. Some insight his age might have lent him that Edward hadn't had the chance to encounter just yet. Jonathan had the air of someone much older than he already was, and that was usually due to wisdom of some sort. That in mind, Jonathan's straightforwardness was even more telling.

"Sometimes nothing. I just like knowing. Sometimes I use it to cover my own plans. But I won't charge you for something like that. That's more of a courtesy between friends." He smiled, without deceit.

It meant that Jonathan, who trusted few, based on his covertness, trusted Edward. Whom he'd been told repeatedly _not_ to. Edward wasn't merely flattered by that. He was also... touched. But cautiously. He couldn't let his guard down. Not now. Maybe not ever. He hadn't the full measure of Jonathan Crane. Not yet.

"Friends." He sounded as though he'd never pronounced the word.

"Friends are more trustworthy than allies, Jonathan." That was all Edward really meant by friend, anyway. Someone he didn't have to be paranoid about. Jonathan might just be one of those people.

Later the next night Edward popped open the cell door and gestured Jonathan out ahead of him. Jonathan was uneasy, looking around him as though he thought there were a trap outside. "It's fine," Edward whispered, pulling it closed again. He hoped the day would never come where the Asylum could afford to install doors that actually contained anybody, but he'd beat those when it came down to it. He headed down the hallway, Jonathan silent behind him.

He led Jonathan down the set of emergency stairs with the broken alarm and opened the door to one of the subbasements that was supposed to be blocked off, but had been broken into a long time ago.

"There's probably other people down here," Edward whispered, Jonathan declining his head to better hear him, "so we can't be seen together. It's going to be the seventh door on the righthand side. It'll be open, but the place we're going is behind another door in that room. I'm going first because I have to talk to people. Wait a couple minutes before you come through here."

Jonathan nodded once and Edward clapped a hand on his elbow, then pulled open the door and entered the basement.

It was dark, obviously, and not a lot of people were there. C-listers, mostly, trying to build some contraption they couldn't afford to buy. Edward didn't make deals with them. They never generated any returns. He played nice with them, but they were very low on his list of people he devoted thought to. He had informants who were at least three times as useful. Still, he had to engage them in smalltalk if only so he was aware of what they were doing. Most of them were happy to talk to him. He wasn't quite A-list, for some reason, but he was nearabouts enough for them.

It was quite a while later before he made his way to the room he'd instructed Jonathan to. He was leaning against a sagging table, arms crossed across his thin chest. "You took your time," he noted in annoyance.

Edward shrugged. "Business can't always be hurried, my friend. Here." He pressed a lockpick and tension wrench into Jonathan's hand. His skin was rough enough that it must not have seen kindness in his entire life. He produced his own, and knelt down in front of the locked door inside the room. "There's some fun stuff in here. I'll show you."

And he showed Jonathan how to insert the tension wrench in the bottom and scrub the pins inside of it with the pick. Edward had been picking locks for many years and it was genuinely more of an effort to slow down than it was to actually spring the lock. He locked and unlocked the door three times and then moved back for Jonathan to try. "In a pinch," he told Jonathan, "a bobby pin and a bent paperclip will do the trick. It's not just the movies. A paperclip isn't as good as a real rake, though."

Jonathan's brow furrowed as he squinted at the lock, inserting the tension wrench, but he couldn't properly manoeuvre the rake. He dropped them both several times, and eventually he just left them on the floor and pushed his glasses up, sighing in annoyance through his nose. The tremors in his hands seemed to have worsened, enough to lead Edward to think that Jonathan was more embarrassed about it than anything else. Which was interesting in and of itself.

"You can work on it later," Edward told him, picking up the tools and handing them to him. "Let's just get in here for now."

Jonathan didn't seem to agree but neither did he argue. Once they'd entered and Edward locked the door behind him, he walked carefully into the middle of the room. It was pitch dark, but he knew there was a lightbulb activated by a chain switch in there somewhere.

"Edward?"

"One second."

"Where did you learn that?" Jonathan asked, as though he hadn't heard. Edward felt the end of the chain clack against his glasses and wrapped his fingers around it.

"I've been picking locks since I was seven," Edward answered, wincing against the sudden explosion of light in his eyes. Once he'd blinked away the black spots he saw that Jonathan was staring at him.

"Seven."

Edward nodded. "I was... on a mission, you could say."

"A mission."

Edward was becoming apprehensive. He wanted Jonathan to believe him, of course; he was no _liar_. But the truth seemed to be going over his head. "My teacher had something in a drawer I wanted. A prize for a contest. And her desk had paper clips and bobby pins in lieu paper clips all over it." He shrugged. "It was a cheap lock."

"What was the prize?"

Edward folded his arms. "I wasn't aware we came down here to play twenty questions about my childhood, Jonathan."

Jonathan turned his head a fraction, enough that the light reflecting across his glasses obscured his eyes. "If you would be forthright I would hardly have to ask, would I?"

"If you have to ask, _perhaps_ that's a hint I don't want to talk about it!" Or think about how excited he'd been to get the drawer open, and hide under the desk to play with the puzzle until its every facet made sense to him, and only then had he put it back into the drawer - in the configuration he'd found it, no less - and slipped out of the school and back home, for the first time in his life eager to go to school the next day. He could solve the cube faster than anyone, even the teacher! Then maybe they would realise that he _was_ smart, and -

"Why not?" Jonathan asked softly. "I'm curious to know you, Edward. What could possibly be so precious to a seven year old boy that he risks everything to break into his teacher's desk?"

His voice was so soothing. It wouldn't have been the first time someone with a background in psychology had used it on him, but... this was Jonathan, right? He was asking because he was genuine with Edward, wasn't he, not because he wanted to make fun of Edward's childishness?

"A Rubik's cube," Edward answered dully, leaning back against the sturdy old desk behind him. "It was a Rubik's cube."

Jonathan moved across the room, sitting himself on the wood next to Edward. "Your first puzzle?" he asked kindly.

He wasn't successful in holding off a sigh. "Yeah."

"It sparked something in you, didn't it," Jonathan continued, in the same soft voice. "Showed you something you'd never seen before. Something that freed you, and yet you could keep it close for the future."

Edward frowned and folded his arms. "You're trying to manipulate me."

"No," Jonathan said, seeming surprised. "Not at all. I've no desire to manipulate you, Edward. If I did I would have done so long ago. You said we were friends, didn't you?"

What did _that_ have to do with anything? "Yeah."

"A friend wouldn't do such a thing."

Edward snorted. "You must not have a lot of friends."

"No. All I'm trying to do here, Edward, is _understand_. And I do. I do understand the feeling of finding that _something_ that brings you new life. I'm just interested in your experience with it." Edward realised with a jolt of adrenalin that Jonathan's hand was on top of his. Not holding, but kind of... shielding it.

"It didn't end well," Edward relented. It had been a while since someone had at least pretended to be genuine. "The teacher knew something was up. I was smart, but not clever. I hadn't realised the drawer would have been left unlocked and she would notice. And I wasn't clever enough to realise I should have solved the cube more slowly when it came my turn to try. She couldn't prove I did anything. How would a seven year old break into a desk, after all? But she told everyone about it. Called my house." Jonathan's hand had tightened and Edward found himself... comforted. "I wasn't just the lazy student after that. I was the cheater. Didn't matter what I did after that. I did everything the right way, and still they accused me of cheating."

"That's enough to make a young man give up on doing things the right way," Jonathan mused. Edward wasn't sure if Jonathan was leading him on purpose or out of habit, but what the hell. Better to tell it all now than drag it out.

"High school wasn't any better. You're smart in there, people hate you. School bored me and I did perfectly in everything without doing the work, except for group projects because the other kids were idiots. I'd been advanced three grades. I was..." He wrinkled his nose. "Most people were bigger than me. You can imagine what happened next."

"Bullying," Jonathan muttered derisively.

"I dropped out after sitting in on a calculus class and realising that there was nothing for me there. I spent all my time at the library learning programming. I sold information to the underworld for a while, until I had the money to move out. I got out of that fast, though. It's not a good business."

"And then?"

Edward drew a long breath. "Moved here. Illegally, of course; there was no way I was going to sit around waiting for visas and eight years for citizenship. Easier to get someone to forge the documents. Wrote a lot of software, sold a lot of licenses. Started digging into databases just for kicks. Hacking everything that claimed to be secure. Stole a lot of money from a lot of people." He looked at Jonathan, because the next part was important. He seemed to still be interested. "That was when I got into _the_ database."

"The FBI?"

"No. Did them already."

"The IRS?"

"Did them already too. No, it was the Bat's computer."

Jonathan leaned forward, gripping Edward's hand. "You got into _his_ computer?"

Edward smiled. "Yep. It was the hardest one I ever tried to hack. I didn't know what it was, I just knew someone was trying very hard to conceal it. He caught me. To this day, he's the only one who ever has. But that was when I knew what I was meant for."

"To challenge him."

"That's right."

"And your family?"

"I think that can wait for some other time," Edward said, and he took his hand back and hopped off the desk.

"I'm not asking so I can use it against you later," Jonathan told him, and Edward honestly couldn't tell when he'd stood. His height seemed to be the same sitting on the desk as standing. "I find you and I to be quite similar, not in every respect but many. Which is why I ask."

"That's fine," Edward shrugged. "I just don't feel like answering right now."

"That's fair." He put a hand on Edward's shoulder, and before he could decide whether to protest or not he realised he liked it there. His reasoning he wasn't as sure of, but for now he'd chalk it up to it not having been done in a long time. People usually touched Edward very violently. With their fists. "What have we come to see, my friend?"

It was one of the locked rooms in the Asylum basement holding all of the old fun stuff: archaic ECT machines, unethical straightjackets, ice baths... Jonathan of course found all of this very interesting, what with his background in psychology, and he inspected all of it without touching anything, as if he were in a museum.

"And they're just going to... leave all of this here forever?" Jonathan asked, squinting at a pair of good old fashioned manacles, formerly used to chain the screaming schizophrenics to the wall.

"They probably forgot about it," Edward answered. "Higher ups either don't care to know or aren't here long enough to find out."

Jonathan got so excited when he saw the bookshelves, formerly secluded in the dark against the far back wall, that he actually had to stop and clasp his hands in front of his mouth in order to reorient himself. Edward smiled. Jonathan was such a stalwart and self-controlled man that the only way to describe him around books was 'cute'. One would have thought he'd been told the best news of his life!

"I can come here whenever I like, can't I?" Jonathan asked, though he still hadn't touched anything. Edward nodded.

"Once you've learned to pick locks, yes. On the off chance someone comes down here, we can't have the doors open."

Jonathan's lips thinned even further than they were naturally.

"However," Edward went on, "when I get a chance I can change the lock for you and just give you a key."

Jonathan turned sharply. "Really?"

"Why not. You'll want someplace to do your mad scientist thing, won't you? Wouldn't want people walking in on that."

Jonathan gripped Edward's shoulders with force, looking into his eyes with deep gravity. "I knew you were the best of them, Edward," he said seriously. Edward laughed in an attempt to hide the fact he was flattered. Jonathan was naïve and didn't know what he was talking about.

"Who am I to separate a man from his books, after all."

Jonathan turned back to the shelf and pulled from it something that looked more like a pamphlet than an actual book. "Oh, lord," he murmured, turning it over. "This _is_ the original DSM."

"It would be a shame if it somehow fell into your collection," Edward said, smiling. Jonathan's shoulders dropped.

"I... don't have one anymore," he said, somewhat morosely. "All of my things will have been... seized." He put the book back into the shelf and walked towards the door without another word.

"Jonathan!" He snapped the light off and ran after him, locking the door quickly from the inside. "Hey."

Jonathan paused and turned around in the anteroom. "What."

"That's it exactly! What?"

Jonathan sighed, furrowing his brow. "All my books are gone, but worse, my _research_ will have been taken. Have you any idea how much _work_ that was?" His fists were actually clenched.

What was the big deal? Edward looked at him in confusion. "So steal it back."

"I'm not exactly a professional thief, Edward."

"You know one, though."

Jonathan frowned. "I... do not."

"Me," Edward said, pointing to himself. "I'm great at stealing things."

"Oh." Jonathan crossed his arms, though it seemed to be because he didn't know what to do with them.

"The GCPD is an old building, and those are the easiest to get into," Edward told him. "I'll probably get someone to do it for me, though. Some cop who's in good with Evidence."

"What will you do? Bribe them?"

Edward nodded. "If the compensation is high enough, anyone will do anything for you. Except a few stubborn types. Captain Gordon, for instance. He can't be bribed. Or intimidated, for that matter. He's from Chicago and has probably seen some stuff." He put an arm around Jonathan's back and led him into the hallway. "You know what happened to him when he first got to the GCPD?"

"What?"

"He wouldn't play along and the commissioner got some dirty cops to go after him."

Jonathan raised his eyebrows. "Not even attempting to be subtle, I see."

Edward laughed. "The GCPD? Never. That's not the best part, though. They tried it again and he kicked their asses. Nobody messes with Gordon now."

"He certainly must have seen some things in Chicago, then," Jonathan mused. "Edward."

"Mm?"

"If we weren't supposed to be seen coming here together, why are we _returning_ together?"

Edward hadn't even realised that was what was happening. "I may have... gotten distracted."

Jonathan laughed. Edward was always surprised to hear it. "You're _that_ enamoured with the sound of your own voice?"

"But of course!" Edward said, thankful for the out. The truth was that he didn't _know_ why he'd forgotten about it. "And why wouldn't I be?"

"Why indeed," Jonathan said dryly,

When Edward came in from the shower, three days later, Jonathan looked more shocked than Edward had ever seen him. "What in the world happened to you?" he asked, actually putting his book down. It was the first time he had ever talked to Edward during the day.

"Got jumped in the shower," Edward answered noncommittally. It hadn't been the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. It was very inconvenient, seeing as he hadn't gotten any showering done, but he had been through worse. Far, far worse.

"By whom?" It sounded more like a demand than a question.

Edward shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"It does."

Edward sat down on his bed and leaned against the wall. "Mathis, in Block D. Probably won't see him again. They put him in there with me on purpose, if my guess is right, which it always is. They do that sometimes when people are getting violent. Put them in with someone smaller to whale on so they'll calm down." He fingered the cut on his temple. It had bled rather a lot at the time, but it was shallow. "Just one of those things that happens."

"And security didn't feel the need to intervene?"

"Mathis isn't supposed to be in Block D. They only put him there because there aren't any beds downstairs. Legally, he's not in the Asylum at all." Edward shrugged. "If it was some other guy, maybe they would have. Probably not."

"I see," was the entirety of Jonathan's response, though Edward doubted he went back to reading, as even Jonathan didn't take ten minutes to read half a page of text.

Outside of four days, Mathis had been sent back downstairs to the emergency room, screaming incoherently, but from what Edward was able to gather he seemed to believe he was being attacked by a swarm of massive killer bees. He had no desire to go down there and verify the rumour that he had been scratching these bees off of his skin with such violence that some of his wounds required stitches and he had had to be bound to the bed. As for Edward's roommate… he looked more content than he had in all the time he'd been in the Asylum.

"Why did you do that," Edward asked finally, after spending most of the day wondering if he should ask or not. It seemed to be in his best interest _not_ to ask, but he was really itching to know _how_ and the why came first.

Jonathan turned the page. "Hm?"

"You drove Mathis crazy."

"I hardly think so."

Edward sighed. "I know it was you. I'm quite obviously not an idiot. I just want to know how you did it. You can't possibly have your toxin in here yet."

"No," Jonathan agreed, "I don't. But sometimes, if you talk to someone in just the right way when it's dark and they're disoriented and half-asleep, you can make them believe anything."

He had to mull that one over for a minute.

"That would require a lot of skill."

"How fortunate that I so happen to be highly skilled." His smile was unsettlingly predatory. He had done it before, and he would do it again, and he would enjoy it every single time. It seemed Edward had been incredibly fortunate to have ended up with him as a roommate. Without the opportunity to ally with him, as no one else had, he may as well have ended up like Mathis eventually. Crying in a corner about -

"But _why_?" Edward pressed. " _Why_ did you do that?" It was time to direct the mental subject back to the original course.

"You said we were friends, didn't you?"

"And?"

"And I don't like bullies."

Why was he following the reminder of their tentative friendship with his own feelings about excessively violent morons? Edward frowned.

"Are you saying you were protecting me from a bully?" Now _that_ would be a first.

"Following up on it, more like, but yes. That was the basic principle."

Incredible.

"Don't let _that_ get around." He lay down and closed his eyes, folding his arms across his chest.

"Why not?"

"You'll get blacklisted if people know you associate with me on purpose."

"Good," Jonathan said. "Then I'll know who the idiots are and _I_ will have no need to associate with _them_."

Edward stared at him incredulously.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jonathan actually put the book aside and folded his long fingers into his lap.

"You're a staggeringly intelligent young man, to be quite frank with you. And you have your finger on the heartbeat of Gotham. Even when in here, nothing happens that you don't know about. You have an incredible amount of potential, and yet what you do with it is…" He frowned in consideration, tapping his thumbs together. "That, I don't understand. But perhaps you will yet mature into greater things. Most people refuse to see past your shallow and vain exterior and I suppose that's their loss, isn't it?"

Edward was rendered speechless, which was quite rare. Jonathan smiled and picked up his book.

"Oh, you are _quite_ fun. Yes, it was me, and I will do it again if need be. You're about the only one I can put up with in this whole damn place. Everyone else is," and here he waved one hand dismissively, " _obsessed_ with something or just plain ignorant. You have your riddles and your little games, but there is _variety_ there, at least. If I had _wanted_ to spend hours listening to someone drone on about cryogenics, do you know what I would have done?"

"Become a cryogeneticist," Edward answered automatically, realising after he did so that it was probably a rhetorical question.

"Exactly!" Jonathan said, raising one finger. "I would have become a cryogeneticist. And I am not, which indicates that I have exactly zero interest in such a subject."

"Well," Edward said, not wanting to voice it but knowing he should, "thank you."

Jonathan smiled again.

"You are very welcome," he said, and did not say a word for the rest of the night.


	3. Part the Third

Part the Third

Edward began to suspect, however, that Jonathan's dislike of bullies wasn't the _only_ reason he had enacted revenge on Edward's behalf. Sometimes he'd be keeping to himself and Jonathan would start looking at him. And not only would he do that, but when Edward looked up to let him know that he knew, he wouldn't stop. Most people would have; no one wanted to be _caught_ staring at someone else. Jonathan, however, either didn't mind or he _wanted_ Edward to do that. He _wanted_ Edward to know he was looking at him intently. Not that he minded, not that he minded at all. He wasn't exactly sure what Jonathan wanted just yet, but he was being nicer about it than most people. Perhaps 'nicer' wasn't quite the word he was looking for, but suffice it to say most people just whipped Edward into a dark corner somewhere and tried to have their way with him. Such was the curse of being somewhat smaller than everyone else. He had had to come up with some quite creative ways to talk himself out of those situations. He had not wanted a repeat of the first several times, where he'd ended up on the floor with someone's hot breath in his face and their fingers clutching –

Jonathan would also ask him questions, mostly about Gotham's underworld but also generalities, and he would listen no matter how long the answer. The answer often got to be pretty long, and yet Jonathan never told him to shut up and he never stopped paying attention. He did those things when Edward talked without being asked, though even when he said he didn't care he still mostly seemed to, albeit grudgingly. More and more often he would allow Edward to talk him into sitting on the floor at night and playing games they could draw with chalk, and if he could manage it he would sit far too close to Edward, so that they were almost touching but not quite. Edward wasn't quite sure whether he was actually on board with that idea or not. The attention, though, he did like. Maybe that fell into the realm of leading Jonathan on, and maybe that was something he shouldn't be doing. But sometimes you took what you could from who was available, and because of that Edward didn't care.

Mostly.

"You have a visitor, Edward," said afternoon rounds, which was Esra today. Edward's body went cold.

"Already?" he asked weakly. "He was here just -"

"He's here now. Let's go."

Resignedly, Edward got up off the bed and walked to the cell door. His throat was tight. Jonathan's brow was set in confused curiosity, but he didn't speak.

Esra brought Edward to one of the visitor's centres, of which there were a few different kinds. In a facility this old that had been built and rebuilt over and over again, it had seen all of the hot new trends in the treatment of the criminally insane. Edward had been taken to the oldest of the visitor centres, built of time-darkened wood and stone and separated into cubicles. Each cubicle had a chair on either side of the scratched plexiglass and a circular piece of metal with holes punched into it so both sides could hear each other talk. Not that Edward had ever _wanted_ to hear him talk. Every time he had to come here, he wished he could somehow prevent his father from leaving Canada, or just from moving so close by, so that when he saw Edward on the news he would not have been able to traverse the distance between them and continue what Edward had left in the first place to avoid.

"Has he improved at all since I was here last?" his father was asking one of the security guards, in a voice that only Edward seemed to notice was rife with false sincerity. The guard considered the question, and then said,

"He hasn't caused any trouble since we put the Scarecrow in with him, but it's probably more because Scarecrow doesn't take shit – ah, _trouble_ from anyone. He's probably scared of him. That's what Scarecrow does, you know. He scares the hell out of people."

"He always did respond to the right amount of discipline, didn't you, Edward?" his father said, turning to face him. Edward sat down and folded his hands in his lap. He had to be here, but he didn't have to like it.

"Twenty minutes," the guard said, and walked off.

"Still here, eh?" his father said, all joviality gone. "Still sitting in the prison for crazies, waiting your turn in line to chase down a man who gives you what you deserve almost as good as I did. Isn't that right, Ed?"

Edward took as quiet a calming breath as possible and willed his hands to stop shaking. He was clenching them more tightly but it wasn't working. They were already starting to itch.

"Always acting like you're so much better than anyone else, and you can't even look your old man in the eye. You're sad, Ed. To this day I have never met anyone more sad than you."

He had to think about something else. Anything else. He had eighteen minutes to go.

"I was thinking it over the other day," his father continued, "and I can't decide which disappoints me more: that you're a criminal scumbag who doesn't know when to quit, or that you're a crazy nutcase who should be put down as soon as possible. Explain it to me, Ed. If you're so smart, why do you tell everyone in advance how to put you away?"

He was pressing his knees together. Breathing normally was almost too much of a struggle. He was torn between crying and driving his immovably clenched fist into the plexiglass hard enough that it would break and he could –

No, he wasn't going to stoop so low. He was better than that. Brute force was no match for the power of the mind. Fifteen minutes left. He was fine. He wasn't going to do anything but sit quietly and not pay attention. He was able to take a full breath for the first time in two minutes.

"You're not smart. You don't make up those things yourself. There's no way a dropout like you could. Admit it, Ed. You steal all of those puzzles and riddles you're so fond of from the _real_ smart people, who post them on the Internet. You cheat. You always cheat."

" _No!"_ Edward shouted, and before he had time to think about it he was standing and slamming his hands into the barrier. " _I do not! I do not cheat!_ " How did he know? _How did he always know what to say?_

"All right, Edward," someone from behind him said, forcing his arms behind his back, "I think it's time to go."

" _He's lying!"_ Edward shrieked. " _I don't cheat! I'm not a cheater, I have rules!"_ He struggled against his captor but he was being held too tightly.

"We know," they said.

"He's lying." Edward was horrified to realise his eyes were starting to sting and his voice was choked. "He always lies. Don't come back here. Don't come back, _do you hear me?_! Just _leave me alone!_ "

"I thought he was such a nice boy when I took him in," his father was saying to the visitor centre attendant, who was nodding sympathetically, "but then _this_ happened. He just snapped one day, and he wouldn't let me help him. He still won't, as you can see."

"A lot of them don't," the attendant said, looking at Edward pityingly. The very sight of it made his gut clench. He didn't need pity, especially not from an imbecile like that who believed his father's lies! "It's so good of you to come here and keep trying regardless. I hope he accepts your help one day. May I see you to your car, sir?"

"Are you going to behave, Edward?" the guard asked as they started the walk back to his cell. "I don't need to restrain you if you can contain yourself."

"Yes," Edward muttered, every muscle rigid and ready to break away and through the door between the centre and the outside of the Asylum and –

"All right."

But he couldn't do that, of course, because he would be sent to Solitary and the _rumours_ that would start from that. His… outbursts weren't uncommon. They could be explained away fairly easily. But Solitary was another thing entirely, and if they all found out who Edward's visitor was he would never again hear the end of it, nor possibly ever be respected again.

All he was able to do when he got back to his cell was curl up on his bed and try to calm down. He wasn't going to. He never did. He was going to spend hours after trying to get those words out of his head, those words and all the other ones that he remembered when his damned father came to visit, but he didn't have the capacity to do anything else. He was able to do this and only this.

"Edward," Jonathan said softly, and he laid a hand on Edward's accursedly trembling shoulder. "What happened?"

Great.

"Nothing."

"I can see that it's not nothing, my friend. Who was it? Who did this to you?"

"No one. Nothing happened."

"You can tell me. It's all right."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Does this always happen when he comes to see you?"

He _knew_? But how could he – oh, forget it. It was Jonathan. He was no idiot. "Yes."

Oh, _dammit_. He _hadn't_ known, he'd been tricking Edward into confirming his suspicion! He wasn't going to talk anymore. He was done talking. Talking was over. If only he'd been able to decide that _before_. His eyes still stung.

"Edward. You can tell me. It's all right. I'm not going to take this to anyone else." He squeezed Edward's shoulder. "I genuinely aim to help."

"It's nothing," Edward repeated, and he was really hoping Jonathan would get the hint soon and leave because if he blinked and Jonathan saw…

Jonathan took a long breath through his nose.

"All right," he said, and he gripped Edward's arm again before he went back to his side of the room.

He didn't move until late at night, when he was sure the sound of Jonathan turning pages in his book had stopped. Then he got up and slipped into the hallway to find some chalk.

He spent the next two hours covering the walls of the cell with numbers, and the floor when he ran out of space, breath jagged and silent tears streaming down his face all the while.

He didn't sleep very long. Only a few hours. Not enough, in any case. Nowhere near the ten he needed to function optimally. He was awake before Jonathan, had woken up on his side facing his side of the room, and that was saying something. He hated that. He hated lying awake in the dark, in his cell. It made him anxious. Other places he'd lived, in warehouses and apartments and office buildings, he'd been able to see time. He'd seen it pass through smudged windows and cracked brick and splintered wood, but here was only the dull grey cement. The chalk he'd marked it with seemed to glow in his exhaustion. He was starting to imagine the numbers formed some sort of ward, a magic spell to keep something out and him in. He wasn't sure what he was trying to keep out. Was he was safe on the inside or had he trapped himself further?

When Jonathan woke it was one sudden movement, as usual, and when he saw the room his eyes widened and he looked around slowly, lastly setting his gaze on Edward. The only place Edward had not written was the wall beside Jonathan. He hadn't wanted to risk falling on him and waking him up.

Jonathan had either been excluded from the ward of numbers, or he was the only thing protected by it. No, that was silly. Numbers never protected anybody. And Jonathan could protect himself.

"I'm trying to think of something… lighthearted, and yet not insensitive to say," Jonathan said finally, his voice little more than a whisper, "but I'm afraid I've come up short."

It didn't matter what he said. Nothing mattered. 

"I really feel as though you need to talk about this," Jonathan told him. "This isn't… this isn't okay, Edward." He gestured vaguely at the room. "This is far too serious for you alone."

So he thought Edward wasn't good enough to deal with his own problems.

Well, he was right. He was damn good at running away from them, but he never ran quite far enough and they always caught him in the end. He felt as though he were going to cry again, and he might have, except there was that odd hollowness in his chest he always got after he did all of this. As though every time he came, his father reached into him and took something out, and left with it, and never gave it back.

Edward turned away.

Later that day he was sitting in the rec room, trying not to think too hard. He hated himself just for that. Actually _trying_ not to _think_? Pathetic.

He knew that Jonathan had been watching him for a while. He knew the feel of his stare by now. What he didn't understand was why Jonathan was making so much of an effort to pretend he actually cared. What was his game, his goal, what _profit_ was there in that? Nobody cared. Edward wasn't stupid. He knew that. Nobody cared. Nobody.

Just like nobody cared that one of the pretty young nurses was being sidelined by one of the male aides. He did that all the time and nothing ever happened. He was one of the bigger guys, suited to holding the inmates down if they got out of hand, and whoever was in charge of staffing right now wasn't going to risk losing someone like that. It was kind of sad, the way the supposedly civilised staff members of the Asylum behaved exactly the same way as the inmates did, except that the inmates had to accost each other in the hallway or the shower to avoid being manhandled by whomever caught them.

Jonathan stood up.

That somehow actually got Edward's full attention, snapped him back out of his head so to speak, and as he watched Jonathan crossed the room, shoved the aide's shoulder back so that they were face-to-face, and punched him in the corner of his mouth.

The aide hit the carpet, dazed or actually unconscious Edward couldn't tell from where he was, and as he sat straight on the edge of the chair he could see how _furious_ Jonathan was. There was a bitter anger on his face that seemed even more habitual than his usual polite annoyance was. As though he had spent a great deal of time being very angry before coming here. He towered over the downed aide, hands clenched harder than ever.

One of the security guards was muttering into his handset that Jonathan was going to Solitary, and Edward almost got up. He almost got up, to see if he could talk them out of it, but then he realised they might think him in on it and send _him_ there as well. He couldn't handle it today. Not after yesterday, not after last night. He couldn't.

The security guard forced Jonathan's arms behind his back and pushed him into the wall. Jonathan's scowl somehow deepened. "Get your hands off me, you barbarian," he snarled, but he simply didn't have the torque to free himself. "Didn't you see what he was doing? Isn't it your _job_ to prevent that sort of thing? Or were you too busy enjoying the view?"

"Oh, I'm bringing him," the guard said into his handset. "And he will _definitely_ need restrained."

" _Obviously,_ " Jonathan said, in such a way that it seemed he'd absorbed all the sarcasm on the entire earth at that moment and injected it into that one word. "Please, elaborate on the difficulties of restraining a man whose wrists you can hold in one hand."

"Keep talking and I'll _break_ those wrists with one hand," the guard told him. Jonathan only laughed. It was harsh and humourless.

"Go on. Keep asserting your dominance through violence because you haven't the skillset to do it any other way. Oh, you people are all the same. Born with a genetic predisposition towards greater muscle mass and all you use it for is – "

There was an audible crack as the guard pressed on Jonathan's bound arms, and the bones of Jonathan's face became more pronounced for a single second as he stifled his reaction. A second security guard appeared, which really _was_ overkill, and with that Jonathan was removed from the room. The aide he'd hit was helped up by the man who was to relieve him, who turned around and shouted, "Anyone else wanna start something?"

Edward certainly didn't.

He had to admit, he was concerned. Concerned enough that he wanted Jonathan to _know_ he was concerned, and so ever since he'd been returned to his cell alone he'd been sitting on Jonathan's bed against the wall, knees up and feet pointed to his side of the room. He was still very tired, but the odd, almost dissociative state he'd been in had more or less vanished when he'd thought of getting up in the rec room a few hours before. And the numbers had been cleared from the cement while he'd been gone. They usually did it quickly when he covered all of the surfaces he could reach.

He had asked himself several times if he really _did_ want Jonathan to know he was concerned – it was somewhat of a weakness, to admit it – but he kept coming back to the reason he believed Jonathan had hit the aide.

Because he _did_ care.

Which meant he hadn't been trying to manipulate Edward. That he honestly had wanted to help. He had been a university professor, right? Between education and research, he must have gotten into the profession to _be helpful_. Because he _cared_.

And so if _he_ did, if stern old Jonathan Crane could blatantly care in public for everyone to see, Edward could certainly care just a little in private.

It was shortly before lights-out when Jonathan was returned to the cell, and his arms were wrapped around himself but otherwise he looked mostly fine. His hand had already started to bruise.

"Are we trading beds?" he asked, looking as though all he really wanted was to be in one.

"No," Edward answered. "No, I was… I was waiting for you."

"Oh," Jonathan said. He sat down slowly next to Edward, his spine cracking.

"Roughened you up a little?" Edward asked knowingly. Jonathan shook his head.

"No. The damn straightjacket didn't fit and dislocated both my shoulders. I don't suppose you could help me with that."

Edward could, as a matter of fact – in this business, most everyone ended up with a dislocated shoulder at some point – and other than wincing Jonathan didn't react. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Pretty bad?"

"No," Jonathan scoffed, almost laughing. "Edward, the threat of Solitary is solely up to the occupant. You only take in with you what you have. If you bring fear, you will be trapped in there with it. I'm not afraid of the dark."

"What _are_ you afraid of," Edward said, without actually thinking about it first. Jonathan looked at him.

"For now, nothing. But we can only steel ourselves against that which we know, and I do not know everything."

"You shouldn't have helped her. And not because… because it wasn't right. It was. But she's going to have to leave now."

"Why?" He was frowning, and he crossed his arms. "She didn't do anything."

"No, but now it looks like she's in with you. Maybe she works for you, or she has something you want, hell maybe she's your girlfriend. And – "

"Absolutely not," Jonathan interrupted.

" _I_ know that," Edward told him, regarding him sternly. "But _they_ don't. Even if all of that blows over, she was still rescued by _you_. That looks terrible on her. The aide might have to go too, out of sheer embarrassment that the proverbial ninety-pound weakling dusted him into the carpet."

"So I have to ignore these things. In order to… but God, that sounds so counter-productive! We're here to learn how to be good citizens, are we not? And yet if someone demonstrates their education on the matter, all parties are punished?"

"I know," Edward said. "That's why people change in here, Jonathan. Things happen and you just have to let them. And sometimes you have to do so while you pretend you didn't look."

"Thank you," Jonathan told him. "I doubt anyone else would have told me that."

Edward felt a little like he was getting credit he wasn't due – he hadn't stuck up for Jonathan to save his own skin, after all – so he just remained silent.

"You're still not yourself."

He shrugged. "Give me another day and I'll be right back to causing you headaches."

"I never said that."

Edward got up and lay down on his own bed. He didn't want to deal with this right now. He just wanted sleep. As much oblivious sleep as possible.

"I'm beginning to think you and I have very different definitions of the word 'friend'," Jonathan said evenly, folding his hands into his lap. "You were implying a business relationship, weren't you."

Edward crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling. He had the feeling he was too tired to do anything but too awake to sleep. His favourite. "There are no friends in this business, Jonathan."

"Why? The contingents in other cities have such things. The Rogues in Central City even team up to take on greater threats!"

"You're talking like someone who doesn't live here," Edward snapped. "Yes, the criminals with powers in Central City are like that. They also have a deal with the Flash, who doesn't beat them senseless, by the way, he just picks them up and returns them to the CCPD when they misbehave." He rolls his eyes. "And yes, I know Leonard and Lisa Snart are criminal siblings. But it works differently there. Friendships don't survive here. As soon as the heist nears completion, someone either ruins the end of it just for fun or they make off with the spoils and let everyone else suffer." _Nothing_ survived in Gotham City. It only mutated into something almost new.

"I'm not talking about them," Jonathan said. When Edward looked down from the ceiling he realised Jonathan had sat down beside him on the edge of his bed. "I'm talking about you and I."

"That makes no difference! And before you tell me the ladies can do it, it's because they're ladies! Everyone goes easy on them!" Even Pam, the most vicious and cruel of the three. She was far worse than many of the other male inmates and yet she _still_ got off easy!

"I know that," Jonathan said. "We would have to keep it a secret. And you love those."

"I do," Edward agreed grudgingly.

"Edward, think on it. I know you are reluctant to trust, especially men. But you and I have many similarities it would be foolish to ignore. I'm not asking you to lay yourself out for all of Gotham. I'm asking you to trust me. And only me. Would it not be nice to have someone to rely on?"

"Yes." He frowned slightly. "How do you know about -"

"I've been trying to work out who it is that comes to bother you," Jonathan answered. "It's not a woman, because you both seduce them and allow them to put their hands all over you. It's not an associate of yours, because you wouldn't fear such visits, nor is it a friend that upsets you, because you don't have any. That leaves a male family member. Never have you mentioned siblings, so it's not a brother. It's a cousin, or an uncle, or your father."

Edward kept as expressionless as he could through all of it.

"I will figure it out eventually," Jonathan told him. "I need only a few more clues. It's whichever of those three that raised you, which I know because you refuse to give them up even though they hurt you then and continue to this day."

"You're damn good, I'll give you that," Edward said wearily. Jonathan put a hand on his arm.

"We are in truth deeply alike, Edward. Do you understand why I am so determined to uncover this mystery visitor of yours?"

"Not really."

"This is a family member who is _abusing_ you," Jonathan told him firmly. "I need to know who it is so I can best help you let them go. They're never going to drop whatever vendetta they have. If they can't keep themselves from coming here, to a _hospital_ , to - Edward? Edward, what did I say?"

Edward had bit his lip hard and turned away. "How did you know," he asked quietly.

"Know what?"

"About the..." His hands clenched. Being backed into a corner. Into furniture. Down the stairs.

"He _hit_ you?" Jonathan asked, sounding taken aback. Edward didn't know why; he'd already guessed that, after all.

"Still would if he could."

"That is the worst kind of bully," Jonathan said softly. "Whom is it, Edward? He does not deserve your protection."

"I'm not protecting him," Edward said.

"Then whom?"

"Myself," Edward said bitterly. "Imagine it gets around. Who it is who comes and my reaction when he does."

"I'm not going to tell. I genuinely want to help you. If you don't believe me as your friend, believe me as a psychiatrist. I was one, before I ended up here. I've no ill intent. Using the information against you only means I lose my chosen ally. How are you to be sure I tell the truth about that? I will tell you something, but with two conditions: you never speak of it, and you tell me who it is that hurt you."

"Why is it so important?" Edward demanded, throwing up his hands. Jonathan remained very calm.

"I just need to know."

He swallowed. He knew how that felt. How it ate away at you, drove you crazy if you couldn't find an answer. He had to tell Jonathan now, after hearing that.

"You tell _anyone_ and I will kill you with my bare hands," he threatened with an emphasising finger, though he probably didn't appear so intimidating lying down. Not that he would have been any moreso standing up, on tiptoes and glaring in the general direction of the bottom of Jonathan's nose. "I will."

"I believe you," Jonathan said simply, and he put his hand on Edward's arm again.

"It's my father."

Jonathan's fingers moved around his wrist.

"He lives in Lansdowne, near Philadelphia. It's a wildly stupid coincidence that he moved there after I left. He pretends I was a foster kid gone wrong when he comes here. No one cares to check. He ostensibly visits to redirect me from my wicked ways, but after he's left alone with me he just starts saying all the things he used to say when I lived with him."

"What does he say?" Jonathan asked softly. His thumb was gently running up and down Edward's wrist.

"Why's that important?"

"It's so we can get this over with and we don't have to bring it up again." That sounded like a solid answer, though he didn't want it to be. "What does he say?"

"The usual stuff a parent says to a kid they don't want. That I'm stupid and lazy. I'll never amount to anything and he should have forced my mother to take me when she left. I'm a terrible mistake I will spend the rest of my life paying for."

"None of that is true," Jonathan said softly.

"My parents don't want me!" Edward shouted, and when he blinked his cheeks became wet. Dammit! "That's the _definition_ of a mistake!"

"Their mistake. Not yours."

"What?"

"You hold no responsibility for existing, nor should you," Jonathan explained. "It was their mistake to create you, their mistake to keep you, and their mistake not to give you away."

"They tried to abort me," Edward said bitterly. "They botched it, like they did everything else. If he wasn't lying about that just to upset me."

"I hope he wasn't," Jonathan said. "If they didn't want you, the universe at large certainly does."

"I've been declared insane and I live in a glorified jail."

Jonathan rolled his eyes and waved his free hand dismissively. "Oh come now Edward, I'm more intelligent than you give me credit for. You could disappear whenever you wanted. Return to Canada, head deeper into the States, leave the country altogether and become a hermit in the Himalayas. You live here because you want to. Because you have things yet to do here."

All of that was true, but now Edward was in the mood to sulk and he couldn't do that over _facts_! "I guess."

"You are not to blame for other people's decisions," Jonathan went on. "Only for your own. You need to disallow other people's decisions from upsetting you. They don't care that you are bothered. They, most of the time, don't even know."

"He knows it does," Edward said quietly. Jonathan looked down at him sternly.

"Stop giving him your trust! He's not going to get any better. He's not going to change his mind about you. He is wrong. And that is his loss. He doesn't want to know you, fine. Don't let him. If people want to walk away, let them. Even if they're family."

"It's not that easy." He wanted to cross his arms indignantly but Jonathan was still holding onto one of them and it felt nice enough that he didn't want him to stop.

"I know that. The difficulty of it doesn't matter. It still needs to be done. He is going to be holding this power over your head for the rest of your life otherwise. You know he only does this because this is the only power he feels he has, don't you? All he has in life to look forward to is making you feel bad about yourself, because he _knows_ you're better than he is. You don't need the approval of a lesser man, Edward. Allow yourself to move on."

Edward took his arm back and folded it into the other one. Jonathan wasn't listening. If Edward could just wave his hand and remove all traces of his father from his life, he would!

"Edward," Jonathan said softly, and he moved to lean over him, so that Edward couldn't see anything else but far enough away that it wasn't uncomfortable. "It will make more sense when you aren't upset."

"I'm not upset!" Edward said forcefully. Jonathan moved the rest of himself over Edward, to the side of the bed against the wall, and sat up against the headboard.

"It's all right if you are."

"I'm not!"

"All right." His sigh was decidedly overdramatic. "I suppose if you're not upset, you don't want the hug I was about to offer you."

Edward set his jaw. God, how long had it been since he'd gotten one of _those_? "You're trying to manipulate me again."

"No, not at all," Jonathan said serenely. "I am attempting to provide you with something you need without forcing you to ask for it. You've outsmarted yourself by saying that."

"Apparently I do that a lot," Edward muttered reluctantly.

"It's true." Jonathan was smiling a little. "You're the only one who can, isn't that right? Come. You didn't refuse but now you cannot accept out of pride." And when he put his arm under Edward's shoulder to roll him into his chest, Edward only resisted a little, out of principle. Not only did it feel really nice, the way Jonathan had pushed one long hand into his hair and started massaging the back of his head slowly, but he thought his eyes were about to betray him again and spill those damn tears everywhere. It wasn't his fault, anyway. Jonathan had been being nosy, and forced Edward to talk about something he didn't want to discuss. It was perfectly fine to be upset about that. And God, no one had tried to be so genuinely _nice_ to him in _such_ a long time…

"But I've a deal to uphold," Jonathan went on. "If you tell anyone what I'm about to say, I will kill you. Very slowly."

"A murder pact, then," Edward mumbled, and Jonathan laughed. He was so thin that Edward more felt it than heard it.

"Precisely." He was silent for a long minute. "Edward, when first I came here, and spoke to you after those initial three months… you were the first person I elected to make casual conversation with in many years. And this is the truth. I've had my head in a book more often than not for the last two decades at least. I live in this city and yet know nothing about it. I did not believe it was as cutthroat as it is. And so when you offered up friendship to me, I thought you meant it literally. I was convinced further when you offered help to someone you didn't know, who had nothing to offer you. Coupled with the fact that literally everyone told me you were an exhausting waste of time, I believed you were playing one of your games with them and had merely been biding your time in order to find your ideal partner. And I, with my lack of any, shall we put it, _field_ _experience_ in socialising, for some reason believed that was me."

That was very, _very_ naïve, but even so, he'd been incredibly smart about it. Edward never would have guessed.

"You didn't mean it the way I did, but I put forward that you consider it. You and I are incredibly similar, but different enough that we can benefit each other greatly. You said it yourself: friends are better than allies. And to be blunt, I enjoy your company. I've not known more people than fingers on one hand that I can say that about. Keep in mind that, though you may think me manipulating you again, I have nothing to gain from that and everything to lose. You are my only resource. My only ally. More importantly, the only one I actually _like_."

Edward had to say that all of that made him feel a lot better.

"And you helped me," Jonathan said, though it seemed to be more to himself. "Not only did you do that, but you did it without a price. No matter the future between us, I won't forget that."

"It's hard without help," Edward said quietly. "Some people don't make it. You don't hear about them."

"You didn't get any?" Jonathan asked gently.

"No, but I didn't need it and I didn't want it." He shook his head. "Most of the new guys, they're stupid and they don't listen. I know how to do things."

"They won't work together. I know. As well I know that you have to betray them before they betray you. But we needn't do that, you and I."

"But it must be secret," Edward told him. "If the Bat knows, that's the end of it. You do something on your own and he lays into me. And vice versa."

Jonathan scoffed. "He doesn't frighten me."

"He will find something that does," Edward warned. "You don't know, but I do. He always finds something, Jonathan. They don't call him the world's greatest detective because people phone him up with the answers."

"We will think of something," Jonathan said. "Between you and I, we will."

Edward found himself believing him.

After a minute Jonathan asked, "Are you better now?"

"Yeah," Edward answered, though he actually wanted to lie and say that he wasn't. He was very comfortable where he was, despite Jonathan's almost grotesque thinness, and besides that... when was the last time anyone had cared, even a little, how he felt?

"I'll go to bed, then," Jonathan said, and as Edward sat he did so too, leaning forward enough to press his lips to Edward's forehead before he stood up.

Edward stared after him, but Jonathan merely picked up his book and settled into his corner with it, as usual. It wasn't Edward's first rodeo; he knew now exactly what Jonathan was trying to sell, along with the very real benefits of a covert and professional partnership. But with what Jonathan had just said, about having to learn social norms for himself in an insane asylum... was Jonathan aware of the message he was sending, or was he misreading and therefore misapplying things that he'd seen?

How on earth did Edward figure that out?

He fell asleep soon after, but it was brief and restless. He distinctly remembered being lucid at several points and was overall annoyed when he woke up, though it wasn't due entirely to his odd half-asleep state. It was because of his hands, which had started to itch at some point. That always happened when he had to think about his father. And it was why he had, more or less, given up on the moving on that Jonathan had suggested. There were some things that just made his hands crawl, and all of them were things he couldn't pretend to forget.

He really, really wanted to wash his hands - thinking about his father made him feel immensely soiled all over, though it went away if he just did his hands - but he had mostly recovered from the last bout of uncontrollable hand washing and didn't care to get into it again if he could help it. So the counting it would be.

He sat up and pushed the sheet off of his legs, which was when he caught sight of Jonathan. Jonathan was asleep for once, draped against the wall, arms crossed over his stomach, book still open and propped against his knees. His glasses had slipped to the end of his nose, which was oddly the softest-looking part of his entire body. But although that was all very interesting, the most noteworthy part was that Edward was very attracted to him for one long moment. When he snapped to he bit his lip for a second and put his glasses on as he strode to the cell door, off to find some chalk.

It wasn't the first time that had happened. It happened more often to everyone than any of them wanted to admit. It was a commonality of prisons: stuck in a room with the same person day in and day out, deprived of any means of satisfying one's needs, whatever they happened to be, the body wanted what it wanted and the closest means to getting it were usually across the room. Edward always ignored it – most of his roommates were too stupid for him to even consider _talking_ to, let alone anything else – but this had to be the first time he was contemplating _not_ ignoring it. Jonathan really did check all the boxes, so to speak: he was intelligent, crafty, determined, and honest, at least towards Edward. He wasn't as attractive as Edward would have liked – he was far too thin and gangly – but he did have an odd grace and when he had the cause to actually relax his face from that politely annoyed expression he always wore, he was _almost_ handsome. It was his eyes, Edward decided as he acquired his chalk. They seemed a little too large, the perception increased by his glasses, though their odd luminosity was as unsettling as it was… enthralling.

He wanted to tell himself to snap out of it, at the same time wondering if he really wanted to. It had been a _very_ long time since he'd had that kind of companionship and, other than being a man, Jonathan really was close to ideal…

He couldn't live like that forever, though, could he? And Jonathan wouldn't do any of those things. Jonathan wouldn't slam him into the wall or pin him to the floor and force himself on Edward when he asked him to stop. If Edward tried to push him off, he'd take the hint, wouldn't he, he wouldn't laugh as if it were part of the game and press down harder? Jonathan respected him enough to listen when he said no. Jonathan wasn't manipulating him. He had no need to.

He rubbed at his eyes with one hand and closed the cell door with the one holding the chalk. God, that was just what he needed right now. He shook his head and climbed up top of his bedrail. Jonathan probably wasn't interested anyway. Jonathan just had an odd concept of personal space, that was all. He pressed the clean chalk into the cement. White chalk, unfortunately.

 _Zero, one, three –_

 _Why_ would _he like you? No one else does. Everyone told him not to, and he's smart. He's not going to go against all of them for you._

 _\- six, ten, fifteen –_

 _He's manipulating you, and you're falling for it. So desperate to be told the truth that you'll believe a lie. Throw yourself into the arms of one. You'd do that to your father if he'd let you, wouldn't you, you sad –_

The chalk snapped.

Perhaps he should have just gone with the washing. This wasn't working.

It would work, he told himself, if you would _focus_ on it.

 _But I have other things to focus on._

 _No, you don't. You're doing the count and then you're going back to bed. Focus on the numbers._

His hands were itching terribly. He pressed the left one underneath his right arm, against his ribs, took a breath, and kept going with the other side of the chalk.

 _Twenty- one. Twenty-eight. Thirty-six…_

By the time he was able to stop he had covered his entire wall and half of the one facing the cell door. And he wasn't certain whether it had actually worked, or whether he was just too tired for it to matter. His eyes were barely open and his hand was shaking out of exhaustion. He had no idea what time it was. He felt as disoriented as though he'd been spinning in circles the entire time instead of writing on the wall.

He tossed the chalk stub out into the hallway, where no one would notice it among the other general detritus on the floor, and then he collapsed.

"Edward. God, what were you _doing_ last night?"

His bed was hard all of a sudden.

"Edward. I can't lift you. You're going to have to get up a minute."

He groaned and opened his eyes. His head hurt where it had hit the floor. He knew it had done that, but couldn't remember it happening. He wasn't awake enough quite yet. Jonathan was on one knee in front of him.

"What," was all his mouth was able to form, though it wasn't very loud.

"You seem to have collapsed from exhaustion. Understandable, looking at the walls again. Come. You've a few hours yet to lie down."

He sat up, wincing. He felt like he'd been hit all down his left side. "Good," said Jonathan, soft and soothing. He helped Edward stand enough that he could be more or less moved to the bed, though Edward lost his balance and fell onto it, taking Jonathan with him.

"You're here, at least," Jonathan murmured, and he lifted Edward's legs onto it and covered them with the sheet after he'd disentangled himself. "You can sleep a while longer."

"You helped me?" Edward realised aloud.

"I did," Jonathan answered, and he sounded sad. "Go to sleep."


	4. Part the Fourth

Part the Fourth

Embarrassed about his lack of restraint in recent times, Edward took Jonathan back to the old storage room the next evening so as to try to avoid any potential conversation, and they rearranged the old tables stacked back there and moved the papers into drawers and such. Jonathan was reluctant to touch any of it at first, as though it were sacrilege to displace old and unused things, but after Edward had moved enough of it he seemed to be okay with doing so himself.

"Do you have a new lock yet?" Jonathan asked him as he slotted some books formerly stacked on one of the tables into the shelf.

"No," Edward answered, handing him another. "I have someone looking for the key, though. They guaranteed me they can find it."

"Excellent," Jonathan said with a great deal of satisfaction. "I didn't really want to be the cause of a defaced door."

Edward rolled his eyes. Only Jonathan would think changing a door handle was the same as defacement.

When they'd more or less cleaned the room up, he brought Jonathan to the labs upstairs and showed him which things in the locked cabinets could go missing without question. Jonathan listened carefully, giving him his full attention, and it was really kind of unnerving.

"They keep the key for these ones here," Edward went on, gesturing for Jonathan to look underneath the bottom of a desk drawer. It was stuck to a magnet there, a very old trick indeed. "They all take the same key. One or two things at a time. If you take too much they're going to look into it, and then there'll be no equipment at all."

"All right," Jonathan said. "I will remember."

"This is one thing we all need to work together on," Edward told him, closing the drawer. "Stuff goes missing all the time, but if it's not cheap the admins notice. One or two phials they can write off as having been dropped, but not six. And remember: the staff are stealing too."

"Understood," Jonathan nodded.

"And be careful with chemicals," Edward continued. "Not because I think you're just agreeing with me so I shut up, but other people are stealing them too. You always have to keep in mind that other people are taking things and they might be things you want. Sometimes you don't get to take them. It's not always fair but that's how it is."

" _You_ must not take much."

Edward shook his head. "There's not a lot I can build that I can take with me. I just steal paper mostly."

"Thank you for your help," Jonathan said. "You have truly been invaluable, Edward."

Edward turned away, wishing he had pockets to stuff his hands into. "I owed you one. That's all."

"No, you didn't," Jonathan said.

Jonathan returned downstairs, but Edward had a task in mind and made his way to one of the maintenance closets. From it he took a battery operated masonry drill, a half spool of wire and something to cut it with, and electrical tape. He didn't think anyone wouldn't notice they were gone anytime soon. That would mean someone had to actually attempt to repair the aging Asylum.

When he entered the basement room, he accosted one of Jonathan's tables to stand on so he could comfortably reach the ceiling. He'd picked it in the first place because it was one of the few with a lowered floor and Jonathan was simply too tall for many of the older rooms in the basement. Jonathan was already sitting in one of the worn old chairs, a book in his lap, though he looked up when Edward climbed atop the table.

"You're going to destroy what's left of your eyes," Edward remarked. "If left to your own devices, of course. Luckily, I have the expertise required to save you that particular bit of suffering."

"Oh," Jonathan said amusedly. "What wonders can you achieve with a drill you can't run power to, hm?"

Edward rolled his eyes. "It's a _cordless_ drill, you Luddite. This is going to be loud for a minute." He'd memorised the many layouts of the Asylum a long time ago, and knew exactly where to drill into the ceiling. He was going to install some power outlets in this room so Jonathan could actually do things. It required that he disconnect some other things in the relevant fuse box, but he'd done this sort of thing before and he'd do it again, many times. The Asylum, somewhat paradoxically, was one of the best places to do this; it had been built in a time when people were proud of what they made and took the time to make it properly, even in the case of hidden things such as the electrical system.

"Luddite?" Jonathan asked. Edward checked that the bit was inserted properly in the drill.

"Yes. A person opposed to technology and advancements thereof. I.e., you."

"What's wrong with what we already have?"

Edward rolled his eyes and turned on the drill.

"I'll be back," he told Jonathan when he'd finished, and picked up the spool of wire. He cut off the lengths he needed and said as he left, "If you see the wire, pull on it a little. Not a lot. Just an inch or so."

"All right," Jonathan said, though Edward didn't doubt he was going to go straight back to his book and ignore the wire completely.

It was all very routine: shut off the fuses he was going to steal, disconnect the wires, strip the ends of the wire he'd brought and connect them to the empty fuses. He'd wanted to take three, but only saw two that were more or less free for the taking. Oh well. Jonathan would have made done with zero, so it was only really Edward who cared.

He then had to head into the room he had disconnected the power from and steal the outlet boxes. He hadn't figured that the screws would have been in so tight and so had to make an unexpected stop back at the maintenance room, which was fine, really. Okay, no it wasn't, but no point getting upset over it.

Outlet boxes stolen, he went back to Jonathan's room, and surprisingly Jonathan _had_ pulled the wire out, by two inches. He quirked his eyebrows in reaction and pulled it out the rest of the way slowly, using the electrical tape to hang it neatly on the ceiling. It would do until he was able to get proper mounting straps up there, but he didn't have time for that right now. Hopefully the electrical tape would hold until then.

He was no less surprised to notice Jonathan was watching him with great interest, which he couldn't deny was flattering. Most people didn't give a damn when he was doing things like this, even for them. He finished taping the wire down the wall and behind the desk, crawling under it and putting the outlet boxes there. It was going to be ugly for now, as he didn't have the right pieces to screw them into the wall. They kept them in a different shed and he'd only wanted to break into one.

When he was done wiring them up he pulled himself out from under the desk and dusted off his hands. He was filthy now and was going to have to steal new clothes from the laundry room.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Jonathan asked. Edward stood up, straightening his shirt.

"Read it in a book. A long time ago. It's not hard."

Jonathan closed his book, as if Edward had reminded him to. "But how did you know where to drill?"

Edward sat on the table he'd moved into the corner. He was a little baffled that Jonathan's interest seemed to be honestly genuine. "I memorised the layout of the Asylum. I know where all the systems are."

Jonathan's eyes widened. "But you would have to have an eidetic memory to do that."

Edward nodded.

"I'm genuinely a genius. It's useful, but remembering things doesn't mean you understand them."

"I'd always thought having an eidetic memory would be terrible," Jonathan said, and Edward was shocked because _most_ people though it was the greatest thing since sliced bread! "Every detail about everything, all the time. Sounds a curse." He did look almost sad. "You must often remember what you'd rather keep out of mind."

He _did_ get it. He really did.

"Yeah."

"Why are you here?"

Edward frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"You're brilliant," Jonathan said, hands spread in disbelief. "You are immensely gifted, and you use it for what? You wait in here for what? You could do anything. Be anyone. Why this? This is _nothing_. You could have _anything_."

Edward swallowed and stood up.

"I guess that's the part that makes me crazy."

He walked out of the room and clenched his hands tight. He was ashamed to realise they were shaking.

What a fool he'd been. As if Jonathan would understand. Would sympathise. Jonathan was more of a habitual manipulator than even Edward was. He'd just been playing cat and mouse with Edward again.

"Eddie!"

He had to stop when he heard that. Not only had Jonathan come after him, but… he'd never imagined Jonathan would shorten his name. He was so _formal_.

"What."

"I was insensitive. To be quite honest with you…" He had caught up to Edward now, and they were standing face to face. "I said your memory must be terrible, in an attempt to sympathise, but I was actually thinking of how much easier it would have made my life. And for you to also be as intelligent as you are… I was resentful. I was no great student."

"Really?" That was actually surprising.

Jonathan nodded. "I struggled for a long time. I have always been aggrieved of natural intelligence. I had to work twice as hard for half the result. It got easier; I learned how to find the connections between ideas and the faster I was able to join them, the greater my understanding. Learning isn't quite the struggle it once was, long ago, though it's still not easy. My intelligence was earned, not handed to me, and when I see people like you squandering…" He shook his head. "I shouldn't say that. If you could feel differently, and do differently, you would. I should not judge." He looked away from Edward then, and started walking down the hallway. Edward followed, and Jonathan said, "Instead, I will tell you that I hope you find what you're truly meant for someday. It's not this, Edward. It's not this."

"What about you, then?" Edward asked, walking through the basement door Jonathan held open for him. "All the work you put into trying to help people, and now you're here. Ostensibly because you can't even help yourself."

Jonathan shook his head slowly, glasses glinting in the dimness. "A good question, but one I have no answer to."

It was, for Edward, one of the only questions _he'd_ never found an answer to.

He finished up the room during the next few days, adding some more light so Jonathan wouldn't go blind, and after Edward fell asleep Jonathan would go down there. Edward hadn't asked yet what he was doing, though he suspected all Jonathan was _really_ doing was being alone. Edward was wonderful company, of course. But Jonathan was so obviously a solitary man who wanted the peace and solace only being alone could provide. Edward wouldn't have doubted it if Jonathan told him he just went down there, turned one of the angelpoise lamps on, and sat there staring at the bookcase for hours on end.

He did have to follow up a few days later, however, because one night he woke up and Jonathan wasn't there. And that was fine. Except that morning rounds started in an hour and he _did_ have to be there then. He could tell this because the first set of lights had been turned on in the hallway.

Edward had never made his way through the Asylum so quickly in all his life, not even on an escape attempt. He opened the door to the lab to find that Jonathan had fallen asleep on the desk, some quantity of paper beneath his hands. His glasses were tilted over his nose and there was ink all over his left hand, but he looked more peaceful than Edward had ever seen him. Edward shook one of his shoulders roughly. "Jonathan!"

"Hm?" Jonathan mumbled, snapping upright. Edward snatched his glasses before they fell onto the floor.

"Morning rounds is in forty-five minutes!"

"Damn." He rubbed at his eyes slowly. "All right. Let's…" He frowned, taking the glasses Edward pressed into his hand. "You came to get me?"

"Yes, now _come on_! If they start early and we're not there, we are _both_ in it deep." When he pulled on Jonathan's arm he stood, and Edward turned off the lamp after directing Jonathan towards the door.

They made it back without incident, other than a near-miss with Janitorial in a perpendicular corridor, and Edward tried to stress to him in the next half hour how important it was that he be back before morning rounds. He got the impression Jonathan was more thinking about what he planned to do that night than he was about what Edward was saying.

He was right.

Jonathan continued to fall asleep downstairs the next several days in a row, and oddly enough Edward woke up an hour before rounds every time and was able to bring him back without incident. Edward was beginning to tire, though. Interrupted sleep simply didn't do it for him.

"I can't keep track of the time!" Jonathan protested when Edward complained about it.

"Then I guess I'll be stealing you a watch," Edward said, and just to be a show off he took it off the wrist of one of the guards who liked to flirt with him. It wasn't hard; the only distraction he needed was a touch on the man's arm, and it was quite easy to do that while he unlocked the door so they could leave for the day start. He flipped the watch behind him in the direction of Jonathan's bed and hoped Jonathan had had the sense to hide it.

"You made that look incredibly simple," Jonathan murmured as they joined the line. Edward shrugged.

"Everything is a mere riddle to me, Jonathan. Once I know the solution, anything is possible. And the solution there was to distract him with one hand while stealing from him with the other."

"He's smitten with you."

That sounded a little accusatory. He folded his arms. "Are you going to lecture me for playing with his feelings?"

"What do you do when they realise you're just toying with them?"

"Nothing. They're the idiots who thought they could trust me. Of course I'm focused on my own gain! I'm a criminal in a lunatic asylum! If they weren't so stupid I wouldn't be able to trick them in the first place."

Jonathan frowned and looked over the line as best he could, which wasn't that hard. Edward crossed his arms and looked away. "What?" he asked in a low voice, resentful that he couldn't just do that himself.

"Someone is being harassed, I think," Jonathan murmured, and when he moved Edward instinctively knew what he was going to do. He grabbed the closest thing he could reach, which was Jonathan's leg. It was like grasping a pole.

Jonathan looked at him sharply, but he didn't seem to be _angry_ , kind of _flattered_ really, and... oh. Right. Edward let go and averted his eyes. "Don't," he muttered.

"Edward, I haven't hated myself in twenty years and I am not going to give myself cause to begin now." And he stepped out of the line and walked forward with purpose.

Edward wasn't going to miss this, and if he didn't move now he wasn't going to be able to see, so he followed.

Jervis was getting laid into by one of those second stringer types, who was unhinged enough to join a gang without much convincing but not sound enough to get himself on the list. Because Jervis was always medicated in the Asylum, he didn't act how he did on the outside, except for his occasional psychotic breaks due to the medication not working. It led those kinds of people to forget just who they were threatening. Jervis on meds was flighty, but by no means stupid. And he didn't forget.

"I think you need to back away," Jonathan said to the second stringer, who was quite a bit wider than Jonathan but nowhere near as tall. The second stringer snorted and puffed himself up as much as he could.

"Says who? You?"

"That's right."

The second stringer laughed and looked around with his hands spread. "You and what army, skeleton man?"

Jonathan didn't react. "I'm sure you remember Mathis from Block D."

"What's that nut got to do with anything?"

Jonathan stepped closer one pace, declining his head a little so that he could look down his nose. "He's down there still. Because I put him there. Without even _knowing_ what he was afraid of. Do you envy his position, I wonder?"

The thug crossed his arms. "I ain't scared of anything. Not like that wuss."

Jonathan just laughed, very softly. "Those who insist as such are always afraid of a great many things." His smile was gentle, almost... fatherly, in a way. "But you can try to keep your fears from me if you like. I do enjoy the process of drawing them out."

All colour had drained from the thugs face, and it was obvious who had been cheering him on: the people who were backing away slowly, returning to their places in line. Whether they believed Jonathan could do that or not, he was the only one who had taken responsibility for Mathis, and no one wanted to end up like him. He was still down there, crying over something that didn't exist. Edward himself would have been wary of Jonathan if not for their partnership. That really was quite the skill, though no doubt the 'treatment' Mathis was getting, whatever it was, was not helpful.

"Do that and you'll pay the price," the thug said. "I work for -"

"Does it look like I care whom your boss is? And would your boss really be pleased to hear I've so easily bested you with mere words?" Jonathan shook his head. "I believe you may be out of a job."

"Oh no," the second stringer whispered, and when he turned to face the direction the line was supposed to be heading Jervis grasped Jonathan's hand with both of his. Jonathan glanced down sharply.

"Oh thank you, sir!" Jervis proclaimed, shaking Jonathan's more or less limp wrist with enthusiasm. "I had feared an altercation was at hand! I really feel as though we mustn't fight, hm, we should all try to get along, shouldn't we? We're all characters of the same storybook, after all, and those who cause trouble never make it to the last page!"

"I haven't been called that in a long time," Jonathan murmured. Jervis shook his head, a morose expression on his wide-featured face.

"Oh, manners are _severely_ underrated these days, I find. Especially in _here_. But I've forgotten mine, haven't I! How do you do, Dr Crane, hm, how do you do?"

"I am well, thank you," Jonathan said, somewhat bemusedly. Jervis then turned to Edward, snatching up his hand and shaking it briskly as well.

"And you, Edward, my friend? It's been ages, hasn't it, simply _ages_ since last we met?

"It has," Edward said, extricating his hand when he was able. Jervis was liable to hang onto it for hours.

"Splendid! I am happy to hear that, so very - oh dear."

"Why are we congregating here?" one of the security detail demanded. "You two! You belong back there." He stabbed a finger where they'd come from, and while he was right Edward did not like being pointed at like some sort of pet. That man was put on his list as he made his way back down the line with Jonathan.

"You know him? Jervis, I mean?" Jonathan asked quietly as they returned to waiting.

"I told you. I was on the rotation list. I know everybody."

"I'd forgotten. Everyone not in Extreme Isolation, right?"

"Pretty much." He had even had to share with Pam for two days. He still went out of his way to step on flowers when he was angry enough.

"Do you miss that?"

"Miss being shuffled around like a piece that doesn't fit because it wasn't cut properly? Not at all. Now stop talking to me. People will think we like each other."

"I suppose I'll have to, because not talking isn't one of your specialties."

"You like it when I talk," Edward muttered somewhat sourly. He was about to glare at Jonathan for his infuriating silence at that point when he remembered he'd just told Jonathan not to talk. All he could do was sigh in frustration through his nose and glare at the back of the inmate in front of him.

Jonathan laughed.

Edward enjoyed show tunes and was listening to them using an MP3 player and pertinent stereo he'd stolen a while back as he spent some more time that night fixing up the basement room. He was no great vocalist, or so he'd been told, though he could hum passably. That was what he was doing when Jonathan joined him a little while later. If he'd been feeling nicer he would have turned it off, knowing Jonathan was not a fan of noise, but he wasn't, and besides. He'd been there first.

He knew Jonathan was watching him; Jonathan always did. He wasn't doing anything major just then, more adding minor aesthetic touches that Jonathan would doubtless not appreciate, but that wasn't really the point of them. It was something to do, something to build, and that was worth the work in and of itself.

"Do you like to dance?" Jonathan asked after a while, because maybe Edward had been doing a little of that. It wasn't really his fault the songs were so catchy. He turned around.

"Sometimes. I don't suppose you do."

Jonathan shook his head. "This body wasn't made for dancing, I'm afraid." His pause felt a little… calculated. It possibly was, but to what effect? "Don't tell me you were going to ask me to join you."

He hadn't been, but he was now. He grabbed Jonathan's wrist, hoping after the fact that he hadn't damaged something unintentionally. It was hard to tell. "Why not? You're just sitting there."

"I'm _reading_ ," Jonathan protested, but he stood despite that. "Fine. But you're going to be disappointed."

"I can only be disappointed if I have expectations, which you've already told me not to set." He took both of Jonathan's hands, as he seemed not to know what to do with them. "Don't worry. It's not that hard."

It was for Jonathan, however; he had zero sense of timing and didn't seem to know what to do with _any_ part of his body. Edward led as best he could, and they had _some_ semblance of dancing going after a minute or two, but it seemed Edward had had a bit more confidence in Jonathan in this area than he should have. Edward gave up on being remotely in time and decided to get Jonathan to do him a bit of a favour. Without telling him that, of course.

"I'm going to have you dip me," Edward said, because he'd always wanted to do that. He didn't know if he'd get the chance to again. He couldn't ask a _woman_ to do it, mostly because he'd only ever danced with them before and they all wanted to be dipped. He didn't blame them, not at all, but that didn't mean he wasn't a little envious.

"I'm going to _what_?"

"Dip me." He put one of Jonathan's hands on his back. "Just lower me as far as you can, all right?"

"All right."

It was a lot slower than Edward would have liked, and awkward, because Jonathan's arm was shaking the entire time, but while he was down there he let go of Jonathan's other hand and tried to touch the floor. It was just as fun as it looked, and he wondered if one day he'd be able to do it for real, with someone who knew what they were doing. Jonathan's fingers were digging into his back. It didn't really hurt.

"Time to come back, Edward, else I'm going to dip you right onto the floor and myself along with you."

Edward laughed and moved his foot back so he could stand up, Jonathan helping him by taking the arm back and pulling Edward towards him. Jonathan pulled Edward right into himself, and he thought that was a mistake, another result of Jonathan's not knowing what to do with his limbs in general, until Jonathan kissed him.

He couldn't figure out how long it was. On the one hand, it really couldn't have been _that_ long, but on the other… it felt pretty long. Long enough that his heart seemed to stop and he ran out of breath, though that could have been within two seconds or sixty. When Jonathan let go Edward just stared at him as he said, with utmost calm, "Oh my. It seems I got carried away," and sat back down, opening his book as though he'd only closed it in order to turn a stubborn page.

Edward had no idea what to do.

It mostly stemmed from the fact that he couldn't figure out how much time had passed. How long had that frozen moment really been? He didn't want to know, because if he'd only _imagined_ it to be longer than it was, well, he wasn't sure he wanted to think about the implications of that… The rest of his indecision was because every part of him Jonathan had touched, from his hands to that place on his back to his lips, all of it _tingled_ and some part of his mind was imagining he was being touched still…

He took as quiet a breath as possible and turned around. He couldn't just keep standing there. That was just odd.

But _God,_ how _smooth_ that had been! How effortless, how crafty! Edward was almost annoyed with himself for not thinking of it. It was the kind of thing he –

Wait. Why would he have _wanted_ to? He wasn't interested in Jonathan. He wasn't interested in _anybody_. Being _interested_ in people was stupid, and he wasn't stupid. He was smarter than that. Better than –

Oh, but Jonathan was so _smart…_

Dammit.

He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes for a good minute. Yes, a literal minute. When he put them back on he went back to the spot he'd been working on and cleaned up. He wasn't going to be doing any more of that today.

He lay in the dark on his bed, staring at the ceiling, for a very long time. He couldn't stop thinking of Jonathan's hand straining, yet determined, to support him, or the firm insistence of their lips pressed together… he was in trouble. He was in trouble this time. His breath was still fast, as was his pulse, and he'd been up there for at least an hour by himself. He _was_ interested in Jonathan. He had never felt quite this way before about anyone – similarly, but not quite – but it was too much evidence to be denied. He swallowed and frowned at the ceiling, crossing his arms tightly. Of all the outrageous inconveniences! He just _had_ to be bunked with the one person on the planet he might – might, mind you – actually consider to be _good_ enough to have intimate relations with. He knew for a fact he would not mind at all if Jonathan kissed him again. In fact, now that he had made his intentions clear, he had _better_ –

No! No no no! He covered his eyes. He was not going to entertain this further. Jonathan wasn't going to kiss him, wasn't going to hold him, wasn't going to find every excuse to touch him even when there wasn't really any excuse to –

That was also a ridiculous line of thought, because it was so overwhelmingly false. Jonathan was going to keep right on doing what he was doing, unless Edward told him to stop. And he wasn't going to.

He should have felt more alarm over the situation than he did. He should have been horrified with himself, should have been ashamed that he was actually going to give in to his primal urges when he was so much better than that, but he was neither alarmed nor horrified nor ashamed. He was _excited._

It was either going to be a brilliant decision, or a horrible miscalculation. The fact that he couldn't tell which only added to the anticipation.

What a disaster. What a wonderful, thrilling, magnificent disaster.


	5. Part the Fifth

Part the Fifth

Jonathan from then on was able to return in time because of the watch Edward had stolen for him. He couldn't wear it, obviously, but Edward had set it to go off as late as possible every morning and he just left it on the desk, which was usually where he worked when he went into the basement. Jonathan's wakefulness was already on a hair trigger so there was no chance of him sleeping through it, as Edward probably would have. Edward had once slept through a decent earthquake.

Edward caught himself thinking about the kiss several times a day, at least thrice. It wasn't really his fault - there wasn't a whole lot for him to do at the moment, as he was waiting for a few of his deals to carry through - but he still did his best not to. Perhaps he was making the wrong decision. Perhaps he should tell Jonathan he wasn't interested, get that out in the open, and Jonathan would accept that and they'd move on. The problem there was that he'd look at Jonathan and start to open his mouth to do it, but then Jonathan would glance at him, or turn a page in his book, or breathe - that was a big one, for some reason - and he wouldn't. He didn't get it. He was getting all flustered over _Jonathan_? This had only ever happened before towards women who were exceptionally beautiful, and Jonathan decidedly was neither a woman nor beautiful. He was many other things, such as patient, attentive, and intelligent. He was also empathetic, clever, and smart. As well as enthralling, meticulous, and -

Come to think of it, that _was_ a pretty long list of attributes to be flustered over.

The distraction he needed came in the form of some hapless new staff member being shown around the block, their guide stopping in front of each cell to describe the occupants and how dangerous they were and why in a monotonous, empty voice. Edward sat on the floor in front of the door and watched, listening carefully. They seemed to more or less be a weak-minded idiot. Excellent. He would have no trouble getting them to work for him, and he probably wouldn't even have to pay that much.

"Can I sit there, or is that too friendly?" Jonathan asked in a low voice, and something jumped into his throat at the thought that Jonathan would sit next to him, close enough that they almost touched. He forced that silly thought back down and said, in what he fervently hoped was a level voice,

"You can. Even people who hate each other hate new staff together."

"Temporarily united through hatred. Seems legitimate." And when he sat next to Edward _their knees actually touched_

\- and Edward wanted to slap himself for being so ridiculous. It was a goddamn _knee_ , for goodness sake, it wasn't like they were _kissing_ -

He pressed his fingers together in his lap and stared determinedly into the hallway. He wished his heart wouldn't beat so quickly. Stupid hormones.

"Why are they segregated?" the newbie was asking, fingers clenched around a clipboard held tight to her chest, which was decidedly average. Not that he really cared right now; it was more of an offhand observation, because who cared about things like _that_ when Jonathan -

"Do the men often assault them?" the new hire continued. Edward almost laughed right along with the dead-eyed veteran.

"No," he said, shaking his head. He looked like he also knew this one was not going to last long. " _They_ assault the _men_."

"Really?"

"Oh yes," the guide said. "If we don't keep them apart we get far too many male inmates sent to the infirmary. And there's never any space in there to start with."

"That sounds... far-fetched."

"When you see Ivy tear some straggling weed up three floors to strangle some hack who dares peek at her ass, maybe you'll understand. Anyway." They stopped in front of Edward and Jonathan and the guide said, "Crane and Nygma."

"Good afternoon," Edward said, smiling pleasantly as he held up a hand in greeting. "I am Edward Nygma, the Riddler! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss -"

"Don't talk to him," the guide interrupted. "He likes to talk but that's all he's good for. Not worth the air he uses to chat you up."

"I told you, Nathaniel," Edward said sweetly, smile unbroken, "you weren't my type! How is it _my_ fault you didn't realise that earlier? How was I to know you were so dreadfully lonely, with only your trusty bottle of Jack to keep you company at night, when I so innocently asked you to provide me with some much-needed, stimulating conversation? Which you failed to provide me with, I might add. So simple a task, so horribly failed."

Nathaniel turned bright red and said roughly, "Let's move on."

"Good afternoon, Mr Crane," the newbie said, and Jonathan's only response was to lower his brow and glare up at her as he said, " _Doctor_ Crane."

"Oh."

"You'll find that many of the inmates insist on being addressed with titles that no longer belong to them," Nathaniel said, and he took her elbow. "Let's go."

"Have a lovely evening!" Edward called after them, waving once. "Especially _you_ , Nathaniel!" The new hire glanced behind her furtively before continuing on.

"Have you any shame at all," Jonathan muttered, though when he shifted his knee only met Edward's with more force. Edward had to clench his fingers again.

"Shame about what? He thinks he's better than we are, Jonathan, and I put him in his place, that's all. I never seduced him, though he likes to tell it that way. No, he's just another lonely moron who thinks that I'll take whatever schmuck who comes along, since my living in a lunatic asylum of _course_ means I don't have standards."

"You truly didn't seduce him? Because you seem to do that to _everyone_."

"Really," Edward said, and it was true. "He had nothing to offer me. I only do that when it has benefits. He likes rules _far_ too much. Besides." He pulled down his left pantleg. "I know you look down your nose at me for doing that. But the women do it constantly, and they are lauded as clever; my ability to do it must then mean I am even _more_ clever."

"I'm not judging you," Jonathan said in a low voice, staring at the pair across the hall as they conversed. "I am envious. You're right. It is a valuable skill."

"Of which you yourself have many," Edward said, out of habit pressing a hand to Jonathan's shoulder, and it was only when Jonathan looked at him that he realised what he'd done. And what he would have liked to keep on doing. He took his hand back and resolved to keep it to himself.

They watched the slow progression down the hallway, Edward privately hoping they moved as slowly as possible so that Jonathan would not get up, when Jonathan muttered, "She's nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full a rockin' chairs," and that would have been funny enough, but he _also_ said it in the most genuine Southern accent Edward had ever heard. After one startled second of trying to reconcile that sentence with everything else Jonathan had ever said, he starred laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. He had to actually lean up against the cell door because he couldn't sit up straight. His eyes were tearing up and his stomach hurt by the time he was able to gather himself. Jonathan's hollow cheeks had gone pink and he looked notably distressed.

"I didn't mean to say that aloud."

"What _did_ you say?" Edward asked, though doing that replayed it in the back of his head and he had to struggle very hard not to start laughing over again.

"Nothing. Forget it." He was staring down the hall determinedly.

"I can't. I have an eidetic memory." He poked Jonathan in the ribs. "Are you from the South?"

"No."

"Yes you are."

"I'm not!"

"Where, then?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"So you are."

Jonathan folded his arms together. "I don't see why it matters."

"C'mon," cajoled Edward. "You made me talk about what I didn't want to talk about."

"That was different."

"Just tell me where. C'mon. Don't make me look it up."

"Georgia," Jonathan said reluctantly. "I'm from Georgia. A town that doesn't exist anymore."

"What happened to it?" Edward asked. He couldn't help himself. Jonathan drew a breath.

"I did."

"You gassed the whole town?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Enough to make those superstitious oafs believe it was cursed. Now, I really do not want to talk about it. If I wanted everyone to see me as an uneducated redneck I would have stayed there. And I would hardly have changed my accent."

Jonathan seemed more genuinely upset than Edward had yet seen him. He really must have hated where he came from.

Edward swallowed and stood up. Looking towards his side of the room, he said the one thing he tried never to say.

"Sorry."

He sat down on his bed, arms crossed behind his head as he leaned up against the headrail. Oh, he'd blown it. He heard the soft shuffling of Jonathan standing, accompanied by some joint cracking.

"But you know," Jonathan said, his voice soft, "I've always wondered what it's like in Canada."

"Well, you know," Edward said, unsure if he really was curious or if he was just looking to defuse the situation. "It's a lot like here, only smaller. While being bigger."

"I don't know," Jonathan said, in the same gentle way. "Tell me."

'I'm curious to know you' echoed in his head, from that night they had first gone into the basement, and he took a breath as he stopped himself in the middle of biting the inside of his cheek.

"The major difference, I guess," he said after thinking it over, "is the scale of things. I'm from the biggest city there, Toronto - "

"The capital?"

Edward rolled his eyes. It irritated him, the amount of people who thought that. "No. It's not the capital. It's just the most heavily populated." He tried to redirect that lock of hair that always fell over his forehead, to no avail as usual. "But compared to here... it's not that big. The first place I went when I crossed the border was New York, of course. I thought it would be the same, but it wasn't. It was bigger. Everything about it was just..." He spread his hands. "It was too big for me, I admit. I didn't stay there long, only long enough to get my documents from the American contacts I made when I was selling information. I sort of meandered my way down here, took about a year. Going through the smaller places got me used to the feel of things, until the bigger cities weren't so overwhelming. You ever been to Las Vegas? No, neither have I. But they have hotels that span entire blocks. There's a hotel so big there's a giant _Ferris Wheel_ in front of it." He shook his head. "Nothing like that up north. And the people... so many people here are miserable at work, and it shows. It's not perfect across the border, of course, but people are more _content_ there." Come to think of it, _he'd_ been more content there. Unfulfilled, but content.

"So why did you leave?"

He crossed one leg across the opposite knee. "Well, we share a lot of the same media. TV shows, websites, music, that kind of thing. It starts to look like America is where it's at, you know? Stuff happens there, and everyone else follows suit. There's an unspoken promise that big things happen here. I wanted to be part of that, I guess." He had also wanted to be far from his father as possible, but _that_ hadn't worked out. He glanced at Jonathan to make sure he was still listening and, if his mildly attentive expression wasn't false, he was. "When I retire I'll go back there. To do what, I'm not sure. That's a ways from now."

"Retire," Jonathan said. Edward nodded.

"This isn't a sustainable life by any means. The kind of stuff you have to do, and the kind of stuff he does _to_ you... it can't be done forever. He has backup, you know, people to replace him. Robins and Batgirls and people from other cities. We don't have that. There will be a Bat standing behind him when he's done, when he needs to retire, and what else can we do but retire as well? Keep falling below the boots of people we can never hope to match physically? I'll know when the new Bat arrives, and when they do that's when I'll leave. There's only one true Bat, and he is the one I'm meant to best. And I will. But no fresh faced replacement is worth my time." He frowned. "They'll cheat in future, anyway. He does sometimes, obviously, but the way technology is going it will provide them with an easy solution and prevent them from using their brains. Though they already don't do much of _that_."

"So you plan to stay here until you best him, or until he vanishes, and then you will return home?"

"Hopefully," Edward said.

Jonathan leaned forward. "But why must you do that? Why is besting him so important to you?"

Edward took a long breath.

"Because he caught me."

Jonathan didn't speak while he tried to think of how to word the next part.

"I'd never actually been caught before, in doing anything. Ripping off mob bosses, stealing credit card information, hell, I have two identities in two different countries right now and no one knows about it except for you. But I tried to get into his computer, and he caught me. _No one_ catches me." His hand had clenched around the sheet and he forced it to relax. "I will get away with it, and rub it in his face while I do it, and then he will know he was not as great as he thought he was." No one would ever best Edward again. No one. Only two people had ever done it, and one of them he had had to write off as a bitter loss on his part years ago.

"And I will show him fear," Jonathan said, a little absently. "He thinks he can escape it by becoming a nightmare. He thinks he can defeat it with brute force against everyone else, just like every one of those..." He frowned and considered his knees. "Violence never improved anyone. All people learn from violence is self-defense, if that. He will learn. He will learn the consequences of his actions, through the fear he denies."

When he looked up, Edward met his eyes. When he did Edward knew, somehow, that they understood each other. That their respective undertakings were nonsensical on the surface, but had an underlying reason that was as important to them as breathing. Maybe it didn't make sense to the people on the other side of these walls. But they made sense within them. Perfect sense.

"Edward, I..." He regarded his hands now. He had laced his fingers together and had spread them, palms up. "I realise this is a long shot, but I must ask: if I requested your help in disappearing, would I receive it?" He looked atop his glasses. "If you were to say no, there would be no consequence. But you have thought this through much farther than I, and I haven't the skill to vanish alone, when the time comes."

"Yes," Edward answered. In return for the genuineness Jonathan gave him, for _caring_ about the numbers and his father and _him_ , as no one ever had. No matter what they were or weren't in the future, Edward owed him for that whether Jonathan said so or not. "You would."

Jonathan smiled, and though it was perhaps a bit irrational Edward was starting to think that he had one solely _for_ Edward; outside of the two of them, every other such expression from the man was cool and calculated for effect, but towards Edward he was nothing but genuine...

Probably his imagination. As if anyone would be solely genuine with him, ha!

But Jonathan _had_ said Edward was the only one he _liked_...

Yes, liked to manipulate.

Oh, but he didn't smile like that for anyone else… so perhaps…

He frowned and folded his arms tight across his chest. This whole _relationship_ thing was already a pain in the ass, and he didn't even know if they were even _in_ one yet.

Of course they weren't! Edward didn't have _time_ for such things. He had plans to make and implement.

Though he could _make_ time, if he really wanted to. Did he want to?

He pressed a hand to his face.

"What is it?" Jonathan asked.

 _You_ , Edward thought to himself, and the idea that perhaps Jonathan was going through all of this on his end brought a modicum of comfort. Maybe Jonathan was just as nervous about this, just as unsettled, just as _confused_ , and he had to say he hoped so. He didn't want to be the _only_ one who had to deal with this unpleasantness, _especially_ since Jonathan had been the perpetrator of _all_ of it. God, that kiss, pressed against Jonathan, so craftily done –

"Nothing," Edward said. "Just… tired all of a sudden."

"You're an awful liar," Jonathan told him. "And since you seem not to be aware of that, I'll give you that one for free. Don't lie to me again."

His voice was so cold the hair on Edward's arms actually stood up. He frowned in Jonathan's direction. "Excuse me?"

"We are _friends_ , are we not?" Jonathan said impatiently.

"And?"

"I cannot call a man my friend if he lies to me. Especially when I only look to help him. Don't do it again."

"Don't tell me what to do!" Edward snapped. "Who do you think you are, my – "

Oh, that was _just_ what he needed.

"Of course I don't think that." Jonathan's tone had softened the barest bit. "I thought I had your respect, that was all."

"You do," he forced himself to say. Not because it was a lie, but because he didn't like admitting such things.

"Then don't lie to me. Just tell me you don't want to discuss it. I was a _psychiatrist_ , Edward, I _know_ it's not nothing. It's _never_ nothing."

God, he was smart.

"All right."

"Thank you."

When next he glanced over, Jonathan had returned to his book. He'd be busy with that for a while yet. And that was fine. Even though the matter seemed settled, there was still a tension. Which was, of course, the _other_ side of even just friendship in this place. Most people, excluding Edward – all right, _including_ Edward but _only_ when his father came to visit – were volatile. Genuinely ill in some inexplicable way that the sub-par doctors there couldn't explain. Jonathan, for the most part, _seemed_ to be a rational man, almost as much so as he himself was, but then again he didn't really _know_ Jonathan. All he really knew was that he was a disgraced, formerly Southern professor/psychiatrist who was on some fear-related educational mission in life. Who had never known personal relationships of any sort before Edward. Jonathan possibly had some deep, underlying issue Edward knew nothing about. He was dangerous, that went without saying. But did he ever become _unhinged_ , in the way _so_ many of the others did?

That, Edward didn't know.

They didn't speak for the rest of the day, which was not unusual but which still made Edward nervous. Maybe he _had_ truly angered Jonathan. _He_ certainly didn't want to end up downstairs, lost in some inexplicable nightmare induced through a whisper in the dark, though he wasn't exactly sure how Jonathan was going to cause the manifestation of what they both knew he feared. Then again, he didn't _want_ to know.

He also was unsure – and _God_ , all this not knowing _bothered_ him! – whether it was that which woke him up later, or the fact that Jonathan had not come back. Trying not to curse under his breath, he clenched his teeth hard and moved downstairs as quickly as he could. As it was so late, the basement was empty, so he called in a harsh whisper, " _Jonathan!_ "

No answer.

When he got to the lab, it was locked; that halted him for a minute but he quickly jimmied it open. Jonathan didn't _usually_ lock the door when he went down there, but who knew what went through that man's head. "Jonathan, I am going to _kill_ you, you – "

The lights were off. He looked around cursorily anyway, his brow now set. He wasn't down here. The labs upstairs then? But this wasn't the time to be stealing lab equipment!

But after he'd run upstairs to check, he didn't find him. He estimated he had twenty minutes left to find Jonathan, and that was not nearly enough time. The Asylum was a damn mansion! He could look for _days_ and never find a trace!

Well, that wasn't true. Edward was good at finding things, and deducing them as well, and after he'd used one of the lab computers to take a look through the security feed, he did not find Jonathan.

Had he _left_?

His eye took in the time on the bottom right of the screen without him thinking about it. He had ten minutes. There was one way to be sure, but he didn't know if he could run downstairs to the confiscation room in time to check.

Oh, but he _had to know_!

Heaving an indignant breath directed towards himself, Edward turned the computer off – improperly, for which he whispered an apology, but he didn't have time to get through the arduous shutdown sequence of an ancient PC – and took off.

He'd been there time a-plenty, usually to steal something back of his own; the inmates' belongings were kept in boxes, locked securely into metal containers to prevent theft. They were not difficult for Edward to get into, not even on his worst days. He was practically a professional locksmith by now. However, he didn't need to pick any locks at this juncture. One of the containers was held wide open with a stack of rejected boxes, cut lock abandoned on the floor next to a pair of bolt cutters Jonathan must have stolen from that one maintenance closet with the latch that didn't close. Remembering what Jonathan had said about the toxin ampules, Edward gingerly opened the flaps of the box that seemed to have been the one Jonathan had been looking for… but there was no need. It was empty, save for a handful of straw and brown threads.

He had left.

Edward had to consciously release his grip around the edge of the container. He felt terribly upset, all of a sudden. Jonathan had _left_ , just like that? Without telling him, after that _lecture_ on _friendship_?

Edward slammed the container closed in an attempt to dispel the energy in his chest, then made his way back upstairs. He was in bed, facing the wall, a mere one minute and thirty seconds before morning rounds walked by, saw that Jonathan was missing, and radioed downstairs.

"Nygma. Nygma!"

He hated that he had to wait until the brute's hand gripped his shoulder. Edward was notoriously hard to wake, and if he just rolled over _he_ would be suspect.

"Hm?" he asked, blinking his eyes slowly as he rolled his head in the direction of his shoulder.

"Where's Crane?"

"Who?" He sat up a little, looking in the direction of the bed he already knew was empty. "Crane… what?"

"He's _not here_ , Nygma. Did he tell you where he was going?"

"No," Edward answered, rubbing at his eyes. "We didn't talk much yesterday."

The guard sighed in annoyance, shoving Edward's shoulder back down. "Dammit. He doesn't know," he said into his radio. He listened to the crackling static for a minute, then cursed. "He took the _suit_?"

And he'd left. Without telling Edward. Who was supposedly his friend. Who he had supposedly wanted to…

It was time to forget it. _Jonathan_ obviously had.

 **Author's note**

 **I was trying to refrain from these – I used to write author's notes entire pages long – but I want to ensure a few things are made clear here.**

 **Some of you already know this, but for all of my intents and purposes Edward is originally from Canada. Nothing in canon refutes this. Some of you already know this as well, but I live in Canada, and having Edward be Canadian is just a fun little self-indulgent thing I can do which is also not exactly false. Saying he's from Toronto is a little cliché, but Toronto is my favourite city and if I'm indulging myself on this front I may as well go for broke.**

 **Edward's impressions of Canada vs America are actually my own; in June I went to Las Vegas, and it was the first time in ten years I had been to America and the first time I went alone. So that part is America from a Canadian tourist's perspective and I of course can't really say for sure if it's accurate or not, as I was only there for five days.**


	6. Part the Sixth

Part the Sixth

When Jonathan came back, he was different.

He felt small. He wasn't physically any smaller, of course, but he held himself that way. His eyes were downcast and his face had lost a little of its hardness. He was nervous, jittery. When security left he sat in the corner of his bed, farthest from the door, and held his head between his knees.

"Welcome back," Edward told him sourly. He had the great and noble ability to hold a grudge when wronged, and he'd been sorely wronged. Jonathan had been gone only five days, so not only was he a terrible friend but he was horrible at planning. There were brand-new inmates with a _portion_ of his brains that managed to disappear longer than that!

"I'm not feeling very well," came Jonathan's voice, quiet as usual but with an anxious pitch. "I don't want to talk."

That alarmed Edward enough that he didn't talk further. He hated himself for it, for giving the man his sympathy when he deserved none, but some damnable part of him was still hanging on to that stupid night in the basement. As well as the night Jonathan had comforted him. He almost felt as though he _owed_ Jonathan for those things, which of course he didn't! He didn't owe him a thing! And yet…

The silence continued on into the night, and the next day, and the next, and the next. Jonathan had stopped reading and going to the basement to work, and instead would spend those hours folded up motionless against the wall.

Worse, though, were the nightmares.

Night would bring to Jonathan horrible, twisted dreams, and during them he would thrash and moan and cry. And he would scream, as though whatever haunted those dreams was scaring him to death. But he wouldn't wake up. Edward wasn't sure he wanted to know what dreams were terrifying enough to do this to the Scarecrow, or what could possibly hold a man in sleep as he so desperately tried to escape it.

Sometimes when Jonathan woke he would fold himself against the wall and struggle to breathe. The third night in a row this happened Edward decided he was going to have to do something. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to before; he had. Anger or no, witnessing nightmares was not to be ignored. But he didn't exactly know what to do, nor if Jonathan _wanted_ help. He had made no indication he did.

He sat down on the bed next to Jonathan and put a hand on his shoulder. Jonathan jumped and moved his head sharply. His eyes were wide and reddened, shadows deep beneath them.

"What do you want me to do," Edward asked quietly.

"What?"

"What do you want me to do."

"I... I don't know," Jonathan told him, and the question seemed to worsen his condition. His breaths were coming faster. "No one has ever... ever asked me that before."

That struck Edward as sad.

"Give me your hand, then," is what he decided on. "You'll have something to hold onto, at least."

Jonathan's hand was cold, as he'd expected, and tense enough that Edward could see every tendon and vein beneath his nearly translucent skin. Either he was a great deal stronger than he looked, or the panic lent him a desperate strength. He had only had Edward's hand for about thirty seconds and already it was beginning to tingle.

His thin chest strained for air a few minutes more and then he seemed to catch his breath, jagged and uneven though it was. He leaned back against the head rail and wrapped his free arm around himself, wincing.

"What?" Edward asked.

"My chest hurts," Jonathan answered in little more than a whisper. "This takes its toll on me."

"This?"

"Panic attacks. I'm anxious before I sleep and during, and when I wake it has accumulated, more than I can handle. And that happens." He swallowed. "The toxin should wear off soon."

Edward frowned. "You ingested one of your toxins? Isn't there an... anti... toxin?"

Jonathan's shrug was weak. "Yes. I'd rather build an internal defense against it, however. It's more convenient. Not that the Asylum staff in general seem to care overmuch." He leaned his head against the wall. "I just have to suffer through it a while longer. As do you, I suppose."

"I'll be right back," Edward said, though it took a second to extract his hand from Jonathan's. It was numb and Jonathan seemed reluctant to let go.

He returned five minutes later, with feeling in his fingers again and a glass of water for Jonathan. Jonathan took it slowly, his tremors worse than ever, but he drained the glass without hesitation.

"Broke into the fine china for me, did we?" Jonathan asked, his voice still somewhat affected by the nightmare.

"Parviz is on rounds tomorrow, and he won't check." Edward reached for the glass, but Jonathan took his hand instead and put the glass under the bed himself. Edward supposed it was easy for Jonathan to have mistaken his intentions, but he wasn't certain what to do about that now. He was tired and yet it seemed callous to stroll on back to bed if Jonathan still needed company. It felt like he was leaving the job of helping half-finished. He put his head down on the bed, meaning to do it only for a second, but found it more difficult to sit back up than it was worth.

"Why don't you come up here," Jonathan said suddenly.

"Mm?"

"I won't be sleeping anymore tonight. I'll wake you before Parviz is to come by." He tugged on Edward's fingers. "Come."

So Edward did, tucking his glasses under the bed and clambering up to lean against the head rail next to Jonathan. It was not entirely comfortable, but he was too tired to care. He waited patiently to fall asleep, but something was nagging at him and he could not shake it. So he drew it out carefully, and then said, eyeing Jonathan suspiciously, "This isn't really an elaborate ruse to hold my hand all night, is it?"

Jonathan turned away, which indicate that Edward had indeed uncovered the truth. "Perhaps," he answered.

"You could have just asked."

"It's more fun when I don't. Don't worry. Your hand is all I will touch. Though if you end up leaning on me perchance I'm going to leave you there."

"That's fine," Edward said, not entirely sure what it was he was agreeing to at that point, but it was Jonathan. He trusted Jonathan. They were friends, after all. Jonathan had probably had his reasons for leaving without a word, really. He'd probably been protecting Edward. It seemed something he'd do, didn't it?

"Jonathan."

"Mm."

"Why are you doing this? Weren't you… upset with me?" He hated asking but now that he'd thought of it, he had to know.

"Hm? About what?"

"You know…" Why was he doing this? "We were having an argument before you left."

"Were we? I don't remember."

Edward turned wide, displeased eyes to him. Jonathan shrugged.

"I don't. You thought I left because of… whatever it was?"

He frowned at the bedrail. "You _did_ leave without telling me."

Jonathan's fingers tightened around his. "I did. You said that the Bat would come after you if he knew about us. It wasn't anything to do with whatever we were arguing about. It was so he wouldn't have an excuse to intimidate you."

"He doesn't need an excuse," Edward said, but privately he was thrilled. Jonathan _had_ been protecting him after all! And he'd said 'us'… there _was_ a 'them', then? Oh, he was _far_ too excited about that.

"Oh, I know. I know. My motivation still stands." When he looked at Edward then there was a hint of a smile on his tired face. Edward closed his eyes, much happier than he'd been in a few days. Because of what, he didn't know. Maybe it was Jonathan's cool hand holding his, or their closeness, or the reassurance he'd just been given. For once, he didn't need an answer, and that was a wonderful feeling in and of itself.

"Good night, little prince," said Jonathan softly, his thumb pressing slowly upwards on Edward's hand.

He kind of liked the sound of that.

When he woke up it was because Jonathan was poking him rather hard in the ribs. Edward made a noise of irritation and tried to swat his hand away. He had the passing realisation that Jonathan was _still_ holding the other one. Edward found himself rather pleased about that. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to do that, but it _was_ the first time it was someone he actually _liked_. Usually it was just desperately lonely crazies who wanted to cry all their problems into his lap, which he would promptly shove them out of and deal with the consequences of later. Morons, all of them. Jonathan hadn't done a single moronic thing since he'd been admitted to the Asylum, other than willingly dress himself in potato sacks, and Edward admired that. Jonathan could hold onto his hand as long as he wanted.

"Edward," Jonathan said in a low voice, even moreso than usual, "you have to get up."

He'd ended up leaning on Jonathan. He was rigid, of course, but cool, a welcome variation from Edward's usually uncomfortably warm bedsheets. It just made him sleepy and he shook his head, not wanting to move.

"Hm," Jonathan murmured, sounding amused. "I never would have guessed that such a brilliant mind was contained within such a lazy body."

Edward snapped to sitting, squinting at Jonathan angrily. Jonathan only shook his head in resignation.

"I am not _lazy_."

"No, but you're incredibly touchy. Go back to your own bed. Parviz will be by in the next ten minutes."

Edward grumpily did so, hating that he'd let himself be played _again_. He hadn't imagined matching wits with a university professor would be so… challenging. The part of him that wasn't annoyed with his own petulance was genuinely thrilled. Why couldn't _all_ of his roommates been so smart?

His bed was cold and yet he found himself disappointed. The progression from that, the thought that perhaps it wasn't his temperature at all, but Jonathan himself, was intriguing. Not just the idea of what it meant. Also the thought that he didn't _mind_.

"You called me 'little prince' last night," he said, to distract himself. "Why?"

"You act like one," Jonathan answered after a moment. "Spoiled. Entitled. Like the world owes you something." He rubbed the side of his nose with one finger. "And yet… you weren't raised that way. Which means you decided to treat _yourself_ that way, and this…" He tapped two fingers to his mouth. "It has a great deal of _interesting_ implications."

Edward had turned away, lest Jonathan note his expression which would doubtless tell him he was right. It was _unnerving_ , how he did that!

"Mmhm,"Jonathan said. Edward had given him his clue anyway, by reacting at all. "Tell me, Edward. The person who comes to see you… they had a tremendous impact on your drive to treat yourself better than anyone else ever would, didn't they?"

Edward lay still very carefully.

"I thought so."

"What?" Edward shouted, sitting up straight. Jonathan just looked at him, eyebrow raised.

"You're damned if you do, damned if you don't, I'm afraid. You react to _everything_. So even if you don't, that's a form of _controlled_ reaction, which is just as telling."

Edward opened his mouth to protest, closed it when he thought of nothing, and raised his finger to say something until he realised he had nothing to say. He waved his hand in defeat instead and let himself fall back onto the bed, crossing his arms.

"Don't you worry, Edward," Jonathan told him. "I'm not out to use the information against you. You merely have the impression of a walking contradiction, and that intrigues me."

"I wasn't worried," Edward said. And he wasn't. But he still was not happy that Jonathan found him so transparent.

"I'm glad," said Jonathan simply. And they remained in silence until the morning rounds came by to indicate the day start.

Jonathan became considerably ill, which no one seemed to want to do anything about. He kept mostly to himself anyway so they probably thought if it spread it wouldn't go far. Only Edward really seemed to care about Jonathan's mostly delirious state, and his coughing fits that were so severe he would be curled into the wall for up to an hour trying to control them, until Jonathan started to vomit profusely no matter what he ingested. This caused him to collapse one day in the hall on the way down the cell block; one second he was there, the next he was unconscious on the floor. Only then was he sent to the infirmary for three days for medicine and a copious amount of fluids. The night they sent him back he was obviously still very sick. Edward frowned as he collapsed into bed, the five minute walk seeming to have worn him out.

"Why did they discharge you already?"

"There aren't enough beds down there," Jonathan mumbled. "Just like a real hospital." He coughed once, leaned against the wall, and then continued for several minutes. He didn't sound any better than he looked.

"So they decided once you stopped throwing up you could return to life as usual?" Edward asked when it seemed he had himself under control again. He shook his head once.

"I don't know and I don't give a damn. It's too loud down there anyway. I'd rather stay up here and suffer."

"I'll be back in a minute," Edward told him, and he slipped out of the cell after glancing down the hall both ways.

It took him about half an hour, because what he wanted was in one of the staff rooms and those were a little harder to infiltrate. When he came back Jonathan hadn't moved.

"Lie back," he said, and Jonathan looked at him for several long seconds before complying. He was so palpably exhausted, even after his stint far away from genpop, and Edward felt sorry for him. He opened the container he'd stolen and sat beside Jonathan, pushing his shirt up into his underarms.

"What in heavens name are you -"

"Medicine," Edward said, holding up the fingers he'd dabbed into the container and shaking Jonathan's weakly grasping fingers from his wrist. "It will help. Trust me."

He spread it into Jonathan's chest, which strained for a clean breath. It was honestly a little horrifying to see; all of Jonathan's ribs were clearly visible, as though he were a corpse recently reanimated. And he was cold on top of that, even moreso than usual, and yet clammy somehow. As if he were actually dead and yet somehow retained life. Edward had to contain a shiver.

He smoothed Jonathan's shirt back down and moved to the end of the bed, and Jonathan half attempted to sit, asking through a dry throat, "What are you doing now?"

"For some people this stuff only works on their feet," Edward answered. "I'm covering all of our bases."

Jonathan's feet were not much better than the rest of him: they were dirty, of course but more than that they were _used_ , as though they belonged to someone much older. Edward knew that he never wore socks and his last costume involved no shoes at all, but he hadn't thought about exactly what that would cause. His soles were thick with callouses, mostly on his heels, and the skin there was already turning white and starting to flake off. Edward didn't find it as repulsive as he would have thought. He just found it really... _sad_. Jonathan was a grown man and yet seemed to have no concept of how to care for himself. At all.

What kind of life could possibly have led to such a thing?

Now was not the time to inquire into Jonathan's history, though. He put the lid back on the medicine and put it under the mattress. No one would be doing a search until Jonathan improved.

"Thank you," Jonathan said. Edward sat on the floor next to the bed.

"I've done it before."

"Really?"

Edward nodded. "I used to be paired off with Jervis, and we got along well for a while."

"He's not bad," was Jonathan's murmured agreement. "But too flighty."

Edward straightened the leg of his pants. "He's very naive. Almost innocent. He likes to tell stories. He likes Carroll best, of course, but he knows all the fairy tales and nursery rhymes off by heart. He was childish sometimes, but the real problem was when he started slipping."

"He takes medication, doesn't he?"

"Most of the time. He doesn't like it. Says it gets in the way of his imagination. When he stops taking it, for the first few days he gets... aggressive. And I can deal with that. And I did, until he tried to kill me in the rec room with a mirror. Or a looking glass, as he calls them."

"Why on earth did he do that?"

Edward pushed up his glasses. "He sometimes starts to think everyone is conspiring against him to keep him away from Alice. He thought I was leaving our cell every night to go have relations with her. I wasn't; I just had work to do and it's not like I could sit on the floor and draw blueprints all night." He stared at the dimness of the hallway. "They put him in solitary for the rest of the day and got him back on his medication, but I was done. It was the first time he tried to kill me but not the first time he threatened to. Before he was due to come back I moved him to another place on the rotation list. He apologised and I know he meant it, but..." He shook his head. "I have enough to do without wondering if I'm going to be the victim when he drops off his meds."

"You've been to solitary as well?" He coughed a little, and when Edward looked up at him he saw it was because he'd brought himself to sitting. "Come up here a while."

He didn't really have a reason not to so he climbed up next to Jonathan.

"Three times," Edward told him. He was hoping Jonathan would take his hand again, but he was keeping his arms wrapped around himself. Which was reasonable, really. He wasn't feeling well. "The first two times my father came and once when Joker antagonised me." Now he crossed his arms. "It was awful all three times."

"Solitary only reflects your mind back to you," Jonathan said, his voice slightly hoarse. "You have nothing to fear there."

"Well… maybe I can't always keep track of what's going on in my head," Edward mumbled. He didn't like admitting that, and had only done so once, during an individual therapy session in which he was heavily drugged and the lady therapist had had a very soothing voice. "It's a lot, you know. I can't always tie it all down."

"So I've seen," Jonathan murmured. "I must say I don't envy you at all."

"It's always either solitary or a sedative," Edward told him, "and sedatives slow my mind down for days. I hate solitary, but the effects from that last twenty-four hours at most."

"They give you a choice?"

He nodded. "Usually they'll tell you if you don't calm down you're going to solitary. If you don't calm down by the time they've brought the straitjacket, you get a sedative and they just throw you on your bed."

"And you've always been able to do that, other than the three times you mentioned."

"Yeah. I had a few close calls, but I've kept it together for the most part."

For the next three days in the evening Edward did this: he gave Jonathan the medicine and then he would sit on Jonathan's bed and they would talk. Or rather Edward would talk; Jonathan would provide him a subject in whichever a way and then Edward would expand on it until he fell asleep. On Jonathan. Jonathan would send him over to his side of the room as late in the morning as possible, and at this point Edward wasn't sure which of them was pretending to be sneaky. Edward knew full well what Jonathan was doing when he politely suggested Edward sit with him, and Jonathan knew perfectly that Edward was going to fall asleep on him. Whatever it was that was happening, Edward enjoyed it. Jonathan also seemed to, and Edward found that reassuring.

On the fourth day Jonathan was much improved but notably still coughing extensively, and for some reason when Edward went to apply the medicine he was told not to. He frowned, confused, but Jonathan only confirmed it again. He also did not ask Edward to sit with him, and Edward spent a lot of time that night staring at the ceiling, wondering what he'd done wrong. He hope it was nothing. Perhaps Jonathan was just in one of his solitary moods. During the next few days he didn't talk very much, nor did he go downstairs, instead spending a lot of this time watching Edward silently. He of course wasn't going to argue with that. Jonathan could look at him as long as he wanted to. He just wished he knew why Jonathan had changed his mind on the part where they sat together, or even just the talking bit. He'd liked that. Few people ever in his life had asked him to talk, and fewer still had listened as Jonathan had.

It was odd, though. Jonathan didn't seem to want him around, and yet he continued to watch him? It was a level of bizarre he'd not known yet. Then again, he'd never had a boyfriend before. Maybe this was just how they behaved. They tricked you into holding their hand one day and made up for it by being overly distant the next. That was fine. He'd get over it.

Maybe.

A few days later he was being a little less distant, though not back to where they'd been before. He also seemed to have recovered from his illness; the coughing had more or less died out and he had back what little colour ever graced his skin.

Edward asked himself several times why he didn't just _ask_ Jonathan what was going on. The answer was always that he didn't want to risk it. Maybe Jonathan really did need a break from him and denied it so as not to hurt Edward. Because he cared. He still would have liked to _know_ if that were the case, but even as an imagined answer it satisfied him for now.

It was unusual for roommates to end up together on the shower rotation, but it had somehow happened that Edward and Jonathan were sent in together. Edward made a mental note to ask Jonathan how he even _took_ a shower; his vision was close to zero without glasses.

"Edward," Jonathan said, "they don't have cameras here, do they?"

"I didn't realise you were so shy," Edward remarked. "But no. They don't care what goes on, as long as you leave within ten minutes. There are some things not worth stopping." Things Edward had unfortunately been the target of.

"Excellent." He stepped closer to Edward, saying, "I've been hoping for such an opportunity."

"What are you – "

Jonathan was pressing him into the wall, hard, with his mouth pressed against Edward's just as hard. Edward immediately tried to drop to the floor, loosening his body so he could slide down the wall, but Jonathan was too damn big and pinned his shoulders to the tile with those long fingers. When had he gotten so strong? His own fingers strained for any part of Jonathan he could grab, could push away, but his body was too narrow! The only option he had left was to turn his face away as best he could, but Jonathan didn't seem to be getting the hint and only continued what he was doing on Edward's neck instead –

He was seeing it again: the dark hallway, the shadow looming over him in the dimness, eyes and teeth glinting as the hard fingers grasped his shoulders and ground his spine into the wall. 'I've been waiting for this' whispered hotly, wetly into his ear. No no no, not again, he'd _finished_ with all of this, it was never supposed to _happen_ again and it was _happening_ and what did he do?

"Stop," Edward gasped. He couldn't breathe. "Stop!"

Jonathan let go immediately and he crumpled, back to the wall with one hand up and hiding best he could behind his knees, as if _that_ would be able to ward him off. He was surprised that Jonathan had actually listened – no one else ever had before – and it took him a minute to gather himself somewhat. "What in the hell are you _doing_?" Edward tried to demand, but his voice was shaking just as much as the rest of him was. His heart was bruising his chest and pounding the breath out of his lungs.

Jonathan crouched down in front of him. "I thought… you wanted..." He shook his head. "Never mind. I must have misread something." He offered his hand, palm up. "Here. I apologise. I thought you would react differently. Forget it."

Edward accepted the hand and Jonathan helped him to standing. He was still trying to get a handle on what had happened. It had been so fast and it was unclear in his mind. For now. He would remember it better once the adrenalin had settled. For now, his breathing was still uneven and his pulse was prominent in his throat.

Edward couldn't look at him then, and was damn glad Jonathan couldn't see him, either; in fact that was the only reason Edward was able to take his shower at all. If Jonathan had been able to do that he would have just sat there in the corner until security came to take them back. Even so Edward couldn't stop shaking, those split seconds replaying themselves over and over in his mind without pause for him to look at them calmly.

There wasn't another word or glance between them until they had been returned to their cell and lights-out had been called, and Edward had spent a good amount of time in the dark running over what had happened. When he thought he had it all neatly organised he said, "You didn't misread anything."

Jonathan looked over at him.

"It…" Edward didn't really want to talk about it, but Jonathan deserved an explanation. "I don't really… like it when people touch me. Like that."

"Ah," Jonathan said. "Might I ask why?"

"I suppose," Edward answered with great reluctance. In part because it sounded really stupid when he said it out loud, and in part because now he was going to have to remember it when that was one of the last things he wanted. "Let's say people don't put hands on me when they're trying to be nice, and leave it at that."

"You have been molested?" Jonathan sounded more angry than curious.

"No," Edward answered, shaking his head. "Almost." Far closer to than he'd ever wanted to be.

"I will not hurt you, Edward," Jonathan told him, with an oddly reassuring sincerity. "You don't need to fear me. And I will prove that to you, if you allow it."

He stared at the ceiling, confused, trying to unclench his teeth. "What?"

"I have no issue with earning your trust in those matters, Edward. It's not as though I'm in any great hurry. I can wait."

Edward frowned over at him.

"Come here," Jonathan said. "I've something to explain."

Edward was a little wary, but he did so, sitting down next to Jonathan and leaning up against the wall. Jonathan put one hand over his.

"I didn't mean to unnerve you, but I didn't realise the extent of your mistrust. I acted that way because of what you were doing a few nights ago." He looked at Edward, which he noted out of the edge of his vision. He was thoroughly confused.

"Giving you medicine?"

"No. You were touching me. No one has ever done that before. It made me wonder what it would be like to touch you."

Edward had no words.

"I'd never had that feeling before," Jonathan continued with utmost candour. "And I wanted to act on it sooner. However, I knew that was dangerous. So I awaited a circumstance where there wasn't a possibility of being seen. I never meant to alarm you. I was… excited."

Edward couldn't say he'd ever heard anything like _this_ before. Jonathan had been waiting to abscond with him in private? If he hadn't been pinning Edward to the wall he might even have gone along with it. Maybe.

"Know that if you tell me to stop, I will. I'm not like them, Edward. I will listen."

Edward sat upright. "You will?"

Jonathan frowned. "Of course."

"Really?"

"Yes, _really_. Edward, I just told you." He was getting a little snippy. "I'm not going to pressure you into anything. It's very clear at this point that I like you a great deal, and with that comes respect. I would _hardly_ respect a man I don't listen to. And if I didn't, I wouldn't be bothering."

"Oh," was all Edward had. He leaned back again. "I… people don't say things like that to me in seriousness, that's all."

"I know," Jonathan said quietly, and he put an arm across Edward, pressing him into his shoulder. Edward, still unnerved from earlier events, had to bite his tongue against the sudden anxiety. He had nothing to worry about. He didn't have to be afraid. Jonathan had just said he'd stop if he was asked. Edward could believe him. He never lied.

"I've been wanting your opinion on something," Jonathan said after a moment. "Do you believe asexuality should be included in the DSM?"

"No." Edward shook his head. It was in line with some of the weirder things Jonathan had brought up for discussion, and he was glad of the distraction. "That never made any sense to me."

"It's often caused by a chemical imbalance, however. Should we not aim to correct those?"

"A disorder is only as such when it disrupts one's daily life. I mean, I wouldn't want to live like that, but if it doesn't bother them then hey, let them be."

"True," Jonathan said. "But if they are disrupted, in a way, are they not? The term itself is widely misunderstood, if it ever is at all. And how can one know they truly don't want something they've never been able to have?"

"You think it _does_ belong there? Is that what you're telling me?" Disorders were things that _needed_ fixed, not things that could comfortably be lived with! Jonathan of all people should know that!

"Oh no." Jonathan squeezed his arm. "No, I agree with you. I just wanted to hear your thoughts on it. I came across it a long time ago, when I was a student, and I never thought anyone suitable to discuss its dubious inclusion with until now."

No one else had been smart enough? Ohhh, he liked the sound of that.

When that subject was ended, Edward asked Jonathan about the phobias he'd seen as a psychiatrist, and which ones he hadn't seen that he would have liked to, and Jonathan got so excited he had to use his free arm to cover his mouth, the tips of his long fingers against his nose. He had threaded his other hand through Edward's hair some time ago, and God it was so pleasant, the preoccupied rubbing against his scalp. He was only able to half-listen to what Jonathan was saying, much as he would have liked to do otherwise, but he was sleepy enough that he was going to have to run through it with himself some other time. All he was really thinking about was the fact that he really should have met someone like Jonathan a long time ago. Things would have been different.

Things would have been better.


	7. Part the Seventh

Part the Seventh

That following night they sat on the floor and drew a ten-by-seven Connect Four grid, since they had two colours of chalk today. Edward played this game quickly, as he did any other. Jonathan, as with everything else, played very slowly and carefully. Jonathan somehow won the first game and Edward the next two, and as he was deliberating his second move on the fourth board Jonathan looked up suddenly and said, "I'd like to kiss you. May I?"

Edward was taken aback a little. He had to take a long breath to centre himself.

"I'd rather you didn't," he said, taking one of his hands by the other thumb and putting them into his lap curled together. He wasn't sure _why_ – he'd wanted it so badly before, after all – but it no longer meant what it once had. He was now associating that word not with the cunning, stolen kiss in the basement, but with the violent, physical imposition in the shower. He hated that. Why couldn't Jonathan just have done it nicely the second time? Think how _far_ they could have progressed!

Oh, good. He was doing it again. Hoping for something he shouldn't: a relationship. With Jonathan, no less.

"All right," was all Jonathan said, and that was that.

Edward was so surprised he actually _was_ respecting his wishes that he accidentally lost that round of the game.

In the next little while Jonathan would ask him now and again, and Edward would always say no, and Jonathan would always drop it immediately. Edward was beginning to wonder _why_ he always said no. Jonathan had proven he could be trusted, hadn't he, every time he accepted what Edward wanted? Why _did_ he feel so averse to having Jonathan show any kind of affection at all? Jonathan obviously respected him greatly; if he had just forced himself on Edward again it wasn't like Edward could fight him off. Edward had never been able to fight _anyone_ off, and even though Jonathan was about the same diameter as one of Edward's arms he was still forbiddingly tall. Jonathan managed to look taller than he already was and it was honestly unnerving. In a staredown between Waylon and Jonathan, Edward's confidence was in Jonathan. Coupled with the force his spindly body had pressed Edward into the wall with, the notion of affection from him was now throwing up red flags in Edward's mind. He was simply too intimidating. Sitting on the floor or the bed, on equal ground with Edward, not so much. But in physical control? How was he _ever_ going to be okay with that?

The night rounds had called in sick, with no replacement, so the next time Jonathan asked Edward was sitting on his bed. They were playing their second round of Old Maid because Edward had been allowed his deck of cards that week, and Jonathan had the Old Maid. This was one game Edward routinely lost, because Jonathan was very, very skilled at reading him. Jonathan didn't even seem to want an answer when he asked this time, studying his cards as he waited for Edward to choose one.

"Yes," Edward said.

Jonathan glanced up sharply.

"Yes?"

Edward folded his cards into a stack and put them on the floor so they wouldn't scatter. "Yes."

Jonathan slowly put his cards on the bed behind him, fanned out still and facedown. "You'll barely feel it," Jonathan said, their eyes connecting. "It will be nothing to fear."

And he leaned forward and placed his fingers alongside Edward's cheek while he did it, and it was true. It was soft, and gentle, and he barely felt it at all. The anxiety over it hadn't really gone anywhere, but… it was nice.

"There you go," Jonathan said, and he smiled. "That wasn't so bad, hm?"

"Well," Edward said, one corner of his own mouth curling, "I may need a little more information before I form an opinion on it."

Jonathan's laugh was low and soft. "I suppose I can't argue with that."

He took Edward's face in both hands. He kissed him softly, every time same as the first, gentle and considerate. And he hated that he had to turn away and push Jonathan's hands back down. He hated the violent thudding in his chest and the fact that he couldn't catch his breath wasn't due to Jonathan. He must have looked incredibly distressed because Jonathan said, "It's all right."

"It's not," Edward said, trying not to grind his teeth.

"It is," Jonathan insisted. "You're not ready. That's fine. We move on. That's what we do." He reached behind him and picked up his cards. "You're oh-for-two, Edward. You probably won't win this round either, but you can try."

Edward picked up his cards in annoyance and fanned them back out again.

He really didn't win that round.

The next night saw no replacement for the sick guard either, but Edward had stayed up too late the night previous and so was trying to sleep. This was very hard because Jonathan had invited himself onto Edward's bed, next to the wall, and he had one ankle crossed over his other knee as he leaned against the headboard as usual. It wasn't hard because Jonathan was noisy, or bothersome, or restless; he was none of those things. It was because Jonathan was _right there_. He was _right there_ , and he had put _himself_ there, and he was calmly reading his book on the effectiveness of insulin coma therapy as though Edward wasn't there at all. And Edward was entirely unable to keep his eyes to himself. Not that he was being lecherous – he was _never_ anything of the sort – but Jonathan had, as the saying went, legs that went on forever. His pants didn't fit, of course, so his ankle and a good third of his shin were sticking out below the hem. Edward just kept tracing the bones of his leg, clearly visible even through his pants, from his knee to his ankle and back again. He didn't find this attractive in the least – it was in fact slightly horrifying – but he could not stop looking. Had Jonathan done this on purpose? Was that why he had settled himself next to Edward and positioned his leg to shadow him? He must have been testing Edward's boundaries.

"How long are you staying there for?" Edward asked after a while. He didn't know why he continued staring at Jonathan's leg; it was etched into his memory like everything else was and he could have seen it perfectly well with his eyes closed.

"Until you tell me to leave."

"So if I fall asleep you're just going to not move."

"Do you want me to move if you fall asleep?"

Damn! Cornered. He bit the inside of his lip as he tried to think of an answer that wouldn't reveal anything.

"That's what I thought," Jonathan said calmly, and turned the page. Edward drove his hands into his face and shoved his hair up between his fingers, and Jonathan laughed.

"Stop that."

"I'm afraid that would be impossible," Jonathan told him, and he closed the book over one long finger and looked down at Edward. "It's habit at this point."

"Well… find a new habit, then."

"Very well. If you insist." And Edward was confused when Jonathan used his free hand to redirect Edward's face, until he kissed him that was.

Oh God. Oh, it felt so good, it was so light and gentle, and... and… wait.

He'd done it _again_!

"Do you just sit there and come up with schemes to kiss me?" Edward gasped when Jonathan pulled away. He hitched himself against the headboard and replaced his glasses as Jonathan smiled, but more to himself than in response to Edward's question.

"I'm surprised you haven't, to be honest. It seems the sort of thing you'd enjoy."

"I do," Edward said. "I just… don't know where we fall, really."

"You're scared."

Was he supposed to admit to something like that? "I don't know if it's worth it," was his answer instead.

"I see."

"Do you?" Edward snapped. "You don't know this business like I do. It's _hard_ to keep things like this under wraps. I don't know why there aren't rumours about it already. You don't understand the risks. You – "

"Oh, of _course_ I do," Jonathan said impatiently. "I am not _stupid_. Quite frankly you have some sort of ridiculous preoccupation with your reputation, as if it actually holds any weight in this town."

All Edward's brain had the capacity to do in that moment was to stare at Jonathan, his mouth slightly ajar.

"It doesn't!" Jonathan said, not even looking at him. "Nobody likes you. Nobody will admit to working for you. People believe you're the Joker's sidekick. Your name is meaningless – not to mention ridiculous – and you continue to focus on it excessively regardless."

Edward crossed his arms and wished that he were sitting on Jonathan's bed, so that he could get up and end this conversation. "So you're saying I'm a loser and you're doing me a huge favour by associating with me. I hope you don't expect me to be _grateful._ Because I'm not."

"That's not what I'm saying." He sighed and sat up a little straighter, laying out his legs. "I'm saying that you have nothing to lose. Your reputation cannot possibly get any worse. There _is_ no risk for you, only benefit."

"I'm not going to be your sidekick." The word was sour on the back of his tongue.

"Not sidekick. Partner. I'm not trying to be insulting, Eddie. Those are facts. You not liking them doesn't change that."

"Nor does it change that you're trying to manipulate me again." Even as he said that, though, the use of his name like that softened something in his stomach.

"I'm trying to put you at ease," Jonathan corrected softly. "You are correct in that keeping this covert is in our best interest, but your position will only be strengthened by association to me, not weakened."

"Did you really have to say my name was stupid," Edward mumbled, frowning at the floor. Really, it had been entirely unnecessary.

"It… Edward, Nygma isn't even a real last name. It seems like the sort of thing a _child_ would make up to entertain himself."

"That's what happened," Edward told him. "I changed my last name from my father's when I got my identification here. I was barely eighteen. I thought I was being clever at the time, covering up my real surname and outright saying it was a mystery. It doesn't matter. I like it and I'm the only one that needs to."

"I didn't say I didn't like it."

Edward looked up at him, a little confused.

"That doesn't stop it from being ridiculous," Jonathan continued. "Perhaps if you used a different word, or your middle name started with N, or – "

"My middle name is Edwin."

Jonathan put the book down entirely and pressed his fingers to his eyes.

"I get it now. You inherited the ability to obliviously choose an asinine name."

"No," Edward said, unsure why he'd told Jonathan that in the first place. He had certainly removed that name from his life as soon as possible; in this country, it was not connected to him at all. "It's my father's name. My mother did that to spite him. To connect me to him as much as possible, even though he wanted nothing to do with me."

"That's awful." He seemed genuine, and when Edward risked a glance his face was somewhat troubled. He actually sympathised with Edward!

He could count on one hand how many people had done _that_.

"I hate it when parents fight each other using a child," Jonathan continued. "It's cowardly. And… oh, I don't want to get into this right now."

"Me neither," Edward said. He hated thinking about it, hated that it set him to wondering if he was everything they had said he was. And as wonderful as that usually sounded when one was talking about parents, it was not so in the most incredible way. He wasn't like that. He wasn't. And even if he was, it was their fault, not his. They had made him this way and then shoved him down farther for it.

"You're not a loser," Jonathan's soft voice said after a minute. "I told you. You just haven't realised your potential yet. You're young. You'll find your way yet."

 _And you'll help me_ , was on Edward's lips, but that really _was_ a childish thing to say. But he wanted to know what the answer was. He wanted the validation, _needed_ it. How was he to get it without asking?

He moved closer to Jonathan – closer was an understatement, he practically climbed into Jonathan's lap – and put his head on Jonathan's shoulder.

There was no pause. Jonathan enclosed Edward with his arm, pressing his lips into Edward's brow. He almost felt safe then, almost felt protected. Almost. Almost, because Jonathan hadn't stopped and had moved onto Edward's nose and was probably going to keep on up to his mouth, and he didn't _want_ that right now! He would have been in the mood _before_ , but not _now_!

"Stop." He ducked his head and to his horror Jonathan used the arm that was around him to try to move it back so he could ignore the fact that Edward was not interested! He had to bite his tongue for a second, because before his eyes was that second roommate he'd had who had done the same thing, had forced him to allow the kisses he _did not want_ –

"Stop it, Jonathan!" He lashed out, hoping to catch _something_ with his hands that would drive Jonathan off, and the heel of one of his hands collided with Jonathan's sternum. Jonathan inhaled sharply and let go of him immediately.

Edward turned onto his side, clutching the edge of the mattress. This night was a bust. First his parents, now this. Because he _loved_ it when people overrode his needs and wants for themselves. It'd been happening all his life, why stop now?

"I'm sorry," Jonathan said softly. "I didn't intend for that to happen."

"You're lying," Edward snapped bitterly. "You control everything you do to the utmost. I know that."

"This is different," Jonathan insisted. "I'm still working out how to control this."

Edward had to look over his shoulder. "Control what?"

Jonathan waved one hand vaguely. "Desire. It's not something I've ever experienced before. This wasn't part of my plan, Edward. I wrote off relationships of any kind a long time ago, even merely professional ones. I really did mean to comfort you, like you wanted, but… I got a little intoxicated, you could say. Not just by your physical self, but by the power I held over your state of mind in that moment. That is also not something I am used to. I commiserate with your feelings of powerlessness, Edward. I understand. And if our positions were reversed, can you honestly say you would not exercise that power if you could? Would you be able to resist once you've had that first taste?"

Edward rolled back over and looked up at the ceiling.

"No."

"Which means – "

"But I have an eidetic memory," Edward interrupted. "So every time you do something like that, it encodes into my brain as a negative event. Every situation similar brings that memory back. It gets brought back and associations added to it over and over again, and eventually I can't associate with the person it all originated from at all. Every time you do something like that, every time you ignore me when I tell you to stop, I make an association between you and all the other people who acted just like that. It doesn't matter that you didn't mean it. It doesn't matter that it was an accident. You know this, Jonathan. That's how fears develop. You are going to _make_ me afraid of you."

When Jonathan said nothing, Edward looked over to see him staring at the wall, as though unable to process something Edward had said. He ran over it quickly and didn't see anything that needed clarified.

"What?"

"That's a power over you I do not want," Jonathan said slowly, "and yet… it is the power I have searched for for years now. Power through fear. In any shape or form, both of which have changed constantly." He met Edward's eyes, brow furrowed. "I will remember."

"So if I were to, you know, continue where this was going originally," Edward said, waving one of his fingers in the general direction of Jonathan, "that's all there'll be. Right?"

"Yes," Jonathan answered. So Edward resumed leaning against him, and he resumed ensconcing Edward under his arm, and that was all there was.

Mostly. Jonathan's nose was in his hair, but he didn't mind that.

"You always smell nice," Jonathan told him absently. "Why is that."

"I have stuff brought in," Edward said, pleased. "My hair doesn't stay like that on its own."

"Nor with help," Jonathan remarked, taking that one wayward strand between two fingers and pressing it to the top of his scalp, though as usual it just tumbled down again. Edward laughed.

"There's always one piece that won't stay put."

Jonathan smoothed back Edward's hair instead, and that felt very nice indeed. If only Jonathan would do things like that instead of try to force kisses on him! One day he'd be ready for that, but not now. He didn't trust quite enough just yet.

… wait a minute.

 _One day_? Just how far was he going to let this go? This was unsustainable, wasn't it? It was Jonathan's first relationship of _any kind_ , those _never_ lasted.

But it wasn't Edward's. And Edward knew firsthand all of the things that destroyed relationships. He had both been the perpetrator and the victim many, many times. He could keep this going as long as he wanted.

How long _was_ that?

He didn't know. And that alarmed him.

"Are you going to need to write on the wall tonight?" Jonathan asked, startling him a little.

"I… don't know yet," Edward said.

"What's the trigger for that?"

What a wonderful topic of conversation. Edward's weaknesses. Again.

He may as well get it over with.

"Anxiety," he said reluctantly, "about things I can't control."

"Even things that already happened."

"Yes."

"Because you connect them to the future."

"Who are you talking to here?"

"Myself," Jonathan said.

"If you _must_ psychoanalyse me, do it silently."

"I'm not." Jonathan squeezed him a little, which felt very nice. "It's to help me remember, that's all. Why don't you yet know if you're going to write on the wall?"

"Because I'm not thinking about anything that just happened. I'm sure you know that, when you go to sleep, your brain sorts away all the things you experienced during the day. I won't think about it consciously, but I can't prevent subconscious happenings and so sometimes I wake up anxious and I don't know why until I'm already trying to dispel it." He shrugged. "I can try to resist but it doesn't make me very pleasant to be around. I don't like the compulsions, but… it's that or a meltdown."

"Thank you," Jonathan told him, and his hand was in Edward's hair again. "I appreciate your candour."

"Well…" This was quite an embarrassing day, frankly, but this also needed to be said. "You're the first person who actually asks about these things because you care. Other people… they're just out for leverage."

"We do have that murder pact."

Edward laughed and pulled his glasses off, dropping them as gently as he could over the side of the bed. Then he balanced his hand on two fingers and walked it up Jonathan's waist. It was a bit of a silly thing to do, and not at all in line with any of the admirably smooth moves Jonathan had been using, but Edward was still a little tense and hoping he didn't wake up that night with the skin of his hands crawling. Jonathan watched Edward's hand progress with some amusement.

"What do we have here, I wonder?"

Edward certainly didn't know so he just shrugged and wrapped his fingers around Jonathan's other side. He was too tired to think of something clever just then.

"It's a sleepy little prince, looking for something to hold onto that won't slip away," Jonathan said softly, and Edward almost felt panic to hear it.

 _How did he always know?_

But Jonathan was looking at the wall again, and couldn't see the horror on Edward's face, and he was thankful. And not only for that, he realised, but for his great good luck.

Jonathan had all of the pieces, or at least enough of them to do whatever he wanted once Edward trusted him enough. Once Edward truly trusted him – and he would, because that was the sort of stupid thing Edward did with people who were nice to him for more than five minutes at a time – Jonathan really would have the power he'd been talking about. And he knew that, and he knew the risks he was taking by even contemplating letting them, whatever they happened to be, get anywhere near that far…

But Jonathan cared. And even if he was lying, which evidence pointed to him not doing, Edward wanted it too desperately to do anything against it. He wanted Jonathan to care, to be telling the truth, for his desire to have power over Edward to truly be stemming from his own lifelong powerlessness. _He needed someone like Jonathan_ , and he could not _stand_ the thought that he couldn't have it. He didn't _want_ to need him, but he knew that he did.

God, what a mess. If only Jonathan's arm, not just the one holding him but the one he'd laid across Edward's and used the fingers of to cradle Edward's elbow, if only Jonathan's arm was not so comforting and so _right_.

Jonathan started humming.

It wasn't a song Edward had heard before. And he would not have expected it, but it sounded somehow intricately melodic, something he never would have guessed Jonathan's voice could do. The melody itself was haunting and sad, and… lonely.

"What was that," Edward said in a low voice, when Jonathan seemed to have finished.

" _Scarborough Fair_ ," Jonathan answered. "Does it bother you?"

"No." He also wanted to tell Jonathan that it was very beautifully sung, but he couldn't get the compliment past his throat.

"Good." And he continued doing it, with another squeeze of Edward's arm.

 **Author's note**

 **The Riddler's middle name really is Edwin, I didn't make that up. I don't know what his father's name actually is, but a) I had to make it angsty and b) it's another sort of self-indulgent thing, because my middle name is the feminine of my dad's middle name and instead of jotting down my entire personal history let's just say my dad vanished from my life a long time ago. Projecting onto fictional characters, amirite?**


	8. Part the Eighth

Part the Eighth

Edward didn't make it through the night this time, pressed against Jonathan; he would have liked to, but in his dreams every memory where he'd been forced into things he did not want cycled through, and he woke up sweating and jittery and in severe need of chalk. As he ground the numbers into the wall with his shaking hand, breaths short, he tried to tell himself over and over that Jonathan wasn't like that, that Jonathan could be trusted, that this behaviour wasn't going to change anything at all, but he wasn't getting through to himself. He knew what it was. He was afraid. Jonathan respected him, ha! Cared about what he wanted, as if! Would listen when he said no, of course not! No man ever had, not in Edward's entire life, and Jonathan was no different. Jonathan was pretending to be different to get what he wanted. It wasn't the first time Edward had seen this. It wouldn't be the last.

When he was able to stop he stood there on his bed, forehead pressed to the wall regardless of the chalk, mouth open as he finally got his breathing under control. Now he was just confused. Could he trust Jonathan? Was Jonathan honest? Was Edward being tricked into believing things he desperately, pathetically wanted to believe? What was he supposed to do about that? It wasn't as though he had anyone to ask. In the end he just lay back down and pulled the sheet around his waist. He'd go back to sleep and let his mind work it out. Now there was something he could trust.

Jonathan watched in silence the whole time.

He put his hand overtop Edward's a minute or so after he had himself arranged, and when Edward looked up at him he was slowly reading the numbers as though they held some secret meaning. He wondered if perhaps Jonathan couldn't help but read.

"What's this one?" Jonathan asked finally.

"Prime numbers," Edward said.

"They seem to escalate very quickly."

"Yeah." He rubbed at the end of his nose; it was itchy, but scratching just damaged the skin. "They're still discovering prime numbers to this day, but because the ones left are so large they're hard to calculate."

"Have you tried?"

He shrugged. "A long time ago. I was bored."

"Bored? Or in need of distraction?"

He wanted to cross his arms but liked Jonathan's hand on his too much to move it. "Both."

"What other things do children think about… ah, there's the age-old question of course! What did you want to be when you grew up?"

That was a weird lead-in to that question. Or had Jonathan actually been born a cranky old man? Edward knew the answer to Jonathan's question without thinking about it, mostly because he had almost made it there once.

"A spy. Like James Bond. But the Canadian version, I guess."

Jonathan laughed. "Quite the aspiration."

"He had everything," Edward said quietly. "Beautiful cars, beautiful women, all the newest gadgets… he was smart, he was witty, and he was always well-dressed. Of course, you get old enough and you realise being James Bond in real life is a lot less glamorous… but I didn't give up on it."

"So what did you do?"

"I decided I was going to become an FBI agent instead. I discovered fieldwork wasn't my thing so I started angling for cyber security. Not as glamorous as Bond, but there comes a point when you know who you're not, even if you don't know who you are."

"Yes," Jonathan said in hushed agreement.

"I almost made it," Edward continued. "I started working for the GCPD. I became head of cyber security pretty quickly. I – "

"You worked for the police?"

He shrugged. "Once. I hated it. The revolving door at the GCPD is even worse than the one here. You can have the most solid evidence in the world to keep someone with, and they'll let the criminal go anyway. And it kept happening, over and over and over again. Half of the reason for this was that people would make evidence disappear. So I came up with some things to contain it better, so that any random joe couldn't just walk in there and take whatever they wanted. Little puzzles, that only trusted, authorised employees would have the answers to. I didn't realise the commissioner was in on it until I presented him with some blueprints and a prototype and he laughed me out of his office, saying I was insane." He took a calming breath. "So I stopped doing my job altogether and just used the authorisations the GCPD had to start breaking into other people's security. There was no point in making the GCPD's computer infrastructure secure; nobody wanted it to be. So I exploited it just like everyone else. And after that I got caught in the Bat's computer and those fantasies of being a spy for the FBI were over."

"But you're a spy even now," Jonathan told him. "You're a spy with a network of spies. You practically run your own FBI."

Edward had to laugh at that. "True. I don't know if I could work there now anyway. I've realised I don't like having a boss."

"You have a criminal record. You can't work anywhere."

"No." He shook his head. "I have a criminal reputation. I have been declared legally insane and so am not accountable for anything I could possibly have been convicted for."

He could feel Jonathan's eyes studying him. It was so very unsettling. "But you always take offense at that descriptor. Would you truly hide beneath it to keep from consequences?"

He looked away and swallowed, hating that Jonathan had backed him up like this. "You know very well by now much of that is posturing. It's either that or I hate myself forever. Not much of a choice, Jonathan."

"There's no need to hate yourself."

Jonathan had read right through him the first day, hadn't he.

"Your problem," he continued, stroking Edward's hand with one long thumb, "is that you never found yourself. That you stopped looking."

If it were anyone else, Edward would have had protests a-plenty, but with Jonathan that was pointless. Jonathan saw through him easily as though he were made of lace, and tore through him with equal ease.

"What are you afraid of," Jonathan asked, very softly. It was the most surreal therapy session he'd ever had, lying there in the dark and hands clasped with a disgraced and yet undoubtedly brilliant psychologist. The origins of Harley Quinn flashed through his mind and he bit his tongue.

Jonathan wasn't angling for that, was he?

"You can tell me," Jonathan said. "If I were going to use the information against you I would have forced it out of you already."

"Isn't it more... satisfying to manipulate it out of people?"

"No. It's a waste of time is what it is. I'd rather they just told me so I could get on with things." He released Edward's hand and put his arm atop the headboard. "Here. Come back, if you like. I would have done it myself earlier but I wasn't sure if you had subconsciously rolled off me on purpose or if you just do that."

"I just do that," Edward admitted, gladly moving against Jonathan again. Even in the face of all his concerns, this simple act was so very comforting...

"I will remember. Now tell me, my friend: what are you afraid of?"

Edward hesitated, focusing on the scent of industrial bleach and his own sweat that had settled into Jonathan's shirt to at least attempt to remain calm in the face of this awful subject. "Failure," he whispered finally.

"And what _is_ failure."

"It's -"

"To you," Jonathan interrupted. "What is it to you."

"It's..." Why was he allowing this conversation anyway? Why didn't he just end it? Why wasn't he saying he didn't want to talk about it, like Jonathan always did?

Because he _did_ want to talk about it. To someone who actually cared, and wasn't doing it because they had to.

"It's becoming everything my father says I am."

"And why do you allow your father to define your definition of failure?"

"I don't want him to be _right_!" Edward said in frustration.

"Is he?"

"Yes." He didn't like saying it, but Jonathan had just expressed his dislike with wrangling things out of people and straightforwardness at least would get this over with.

"No," Jonathan said, pressing a long finger to the end of Edward's nose. "No, he is not."

" _Look_ at me! I -"

"You are a _very_ young man," Jonathan interrupted again, more firmly this time. "Failure is defined by something you have not finished, and have no intention to. You are by no means near your end. You are not over, and you won't be for a very long time. You have scarcely begun your life, Edward. Do not allow other people to end it for you."

Edward badly wanted to put his arm around Jonathan's waist, but he had already said too much. "Why do you care?"

"Because I was like you," Jonathan said quietly. "I was just like you. I cannot in good conscience leave you to lose hope when I myself was in your position many years ago."

Edward laughed bitterly. "A conscience isn't going to do you much good in here."

"I was not always a bad man." His voice was still sombre. "I was good once."

"I was never good," Edward said. "So if you're trying to repair your own life through me, forget it. I – "

"You have innocence still," Jonathan cut in. "That is all you need. There is still a spark of that little boy in you."

"You don't want me to become you," Edward said.

"That's right."

"There's nothing wrong with you."

Jonathan's intake of breath was weary. "Edward, did we not discuss the whole lying situation? There are a great deal of things I could improve on. It's not an insult to tell me the truth."

"It's... I'm not lying." And he wasn't, but he wasn't exactly sure why he'd said it, either.

"I am no hero to be emulated," Jonathan told him. "For your own good. Don't do it."

"It's not like that. It's more like..." God, did he actually want to say this? "I admire your control."

"And I'm telling you not to."

"But -"

"You don't know me very well, Edward. Your perception of me is skewed by my own design. I am telling you not to."

Edward chewed on his tongue a moment. "So you don't trust me."

"If I didn't I would have made alternate arrangements many months ago." His voice had cooled. "I let you put hands on me when no one else ever had."

"Then why the secrecy?" Edward demanded. "Why keep your history so mysterious? If you trust me, why hide?"

Jonathan was silent for a long time.

"I'm not ready to talk about it," he answered finally. "It's not about you. It's about me. I mean no offense, my friend, but that is one way you and I differ. You want someone to know your story. I wish I had no memory of mine."

Edward wanted badly to dig, to push at Jonathan until Jonathan pushed back, but he held his tongue. Respect, he needed to respect Jonathan's needs. And he didn't want Jonathan to go. He wanted to stay right there beneath Jonathan's arm, and if he were driven to anger he would get up and leave. Go to the basement, even. Edward didn't want that. For once, he could push back on his curiosity.

"Thank you," Jonathan said softly, and he pressed his lips to Edward's brow. "I know you need to know. And you will. But not yet."

"Can I have one question?" Edward asked. "It's an easy one."

"Fine. One question."

"What did _you_ want to do when you were a kid?"

"Nothing," Jonathan answered immediately. "I didn't want to be anything."

Edward frowned, only made more curious. "Nothing? Nothing at all? How is that possible? Every kid daydreams about being an astronaut or a teacher or – "

"You said one question," Jonathan interrupted.

Edward honestly felt as though Jonathan had cheated with that answer, but he decided not to press. "All right," was what he decided to go with.

Jonathan sighed.

"No. That was cheating. I admit it. I don't want to get into it, so I will say that when I was a boy I did not have time for daydreaming. I had to focus on reality. Fantasy was something denied me."

When Edward looked at him then, his brow was furrowed and he looked disturbed, moreso than Edward had yet seen. He actually felt bad for asking.

"I'm sorry," he said. He wasn't completely sure if he was apologising for the inquiry itself or Jonathan's own history. Maybe Jonathan knew. His gaze was certainly piercing, and Edward wasn't even looking at him anymore.

"Will you teach me to dream, Edward?"

Now Edward was just getting sad. And for another person, in lieu of himself… unusual, and unwelcome, though not completely. He shouldn't mind becoming empathetic for Jonathan. Jonathan was his… boyfriend, wasn't he?

"I don't know if that can be taught, Jonathan."

"I can learn through example." He was holding Edward a little closer, and Edward gave up on resisting the urge to put his arm around Jonathan's waist. There were probably a _lot_ of things Jonathan was learning through Edward's example, now that he thought about it. Just like Edward was trying to do with Jonathan.

"I'm a pretty exemplary one of those," he said, more in the interest of lightening the mood than anything.

"And modest," Jonathan said, with some amusement.

"Modesty is overrated." Edward waved one hand in dismissal, but not overly long. It felt too _right_ , wrapped around Jonathan. "Nothing wrong with liking yourself. It's not like other people are going to do it for you."

"Quite true."

Edward woke up at the behest of morning rounds, yawning and looking across the room to see Jonathan sitting on his own bed again, staring dully at the wall. He did not look like he had slept, and if he had, it must have been for all of twenty minutes. Edward neither inquired into that nor particularly cared at the moment; he knew he still had a good twenty minutes worth of dozing he could fit in and got right on that. Abraham was going to yell at him for being lazy and insolent when he came back around, but Edward didn't care. He was more than willing to undergo that in return for another nearly quarter hour of sleep.

Edward got sent to group and Jonathan someplace else, Edward wasn't paying attention to where. He stared at the wall in disinterest, not at all wanting to hear the story of some yutz whose girlfriend drove them into a rage. Communication was key, Edward wanted to scream at him. If there is no communication there is nothing stable to build on top of! He sighed and crossed his legs the opposite way and tried not to chew on his lower lip. He needed chapstick.

Then he got sent to the rec room, and when he saw Jonathan it hit him that things were worse than he'd thought.

Edward intentionally wandered around the rec room until there was no place left to sit except on the couch next to Jonathan. Then he invited himself onto it, curling his arm over the edge of the couch and propping his ankle up on his opposite knee.

"You look like death," he murmured, staring directly at the television. An old cartoon Edward remembered was playing silently on the TV, subtitles running steadily along the bottom. "Not death warmed over, either. Death like it just died."

"I feel like death," Jonathan said, voice equally low. "I can't remember the last time I slept."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have to… find my zolpidem," he answered, and his face creased in discomfort for a long moment. "It's around somewhere."

"Where?"

"Where is what?"

"Your zolpidem."

Jonathan frowned the barest bit. "How did you know I had zolpidem?"

"You just _told_ me." Great. Fatigue was reducing Jonathan's brain to mush.

"Oh. I don't know where it is."

Edward sighed.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I..." He shook his head. "My mind is a blank slate right now. I can't concentrate on anything. That's the only reason I'm even sitting here. I can't focus. Everything is blurring together."

"So what do you end up doing all night if you can't focus and you aren't sleeping?" Edward had to ask. Daydream about new schemes? Think up toxin formulae? Mentally design new burlap configurations?

"I watch you sleep."

He sat up a little straighter.

"You like that."

He shrugged. "You can look at me all you want, Jonathan."

Jonathan almost smiled, and might have if he hadn't been so out of sorts. "It's both amusing and frustrating that you sleep so deeply and yet cannot lie still at the same time."

"I slept through an earthquake once."

Jonathan made a noise of discontent. "I hate you."

"Well, before you do that keep in mind I have to sleep ten hours to be at peak efficiency. With the general average being six hours, I can accrue quite the sleep debt very quickly."

"I would honestly take that right now."

"Is it _because_ of me?" Edward asked, not really wanting to know. He wanted Jonathan to continue sitting next to him at night, but if it was keeping him awake then maybe…

"No," Jonathan answered. He rubbed at one eyebrow absently. "No, if I could fall asleep in the first place you would actually be very helpful. Part of the issue is that I am always distractingly cold and you solve that problem very nicely. You actually settle a little when I'm there. No, it's… this happens when I take ill sometimes."

"You just have to wait it out then."

"Unfortunately."

Edward began to realise he needed to learn to head off Jonathan's exhaustion before it was too late; he became increasingly terrifying the more fatigued he became. He was beginning to lose himself to the Scarecrow persona, and that would have been bad enough. But it wasn't stopping there. Jonathan would talk as though he held authority over Edward, like Edward was his dog to be whipped. If Edward said anything at all he disliked he would silence him with a glance that seemed to melt Edward's stomach. On the occasions Edward tried to defuse him Jonathan would shake his head and walk over to him slowly; he would then bend to one knee in front of him and lay his fingers alongside Edward's jaw. They felt like lace against his cheek. Edward would look down at him without being led. And then, his voice low, intimate, almost seductive, Jonathan would ask why he bothered.

It was no use trying, he would say, with an eerie sincerity. Edward was a mistake anyway. He was an accidental blot on the tapestry that was his family, his city, was life itself, and nothing he did mattered in the end. He wasn't as smart as he thought he was. He wasn't smart at all. No one liked him; the only people who spoke to him did so out of resounding pity. He and everything he did was meaningless, so why did he bother? He was never going to succeed in anything, ever. So he may as well give up. He might as well admit it and be a man for once in his wretched, pitiful, misguided life.

And because Jonathan knew those were all the things his father had said, because Jonathan was saying them on purpose to upset him, it hurt. The one man he thought he could name his friend and trust with his secrets merely took them and turned them back on him when he deemed it profitable. He supposed he should have expected it, but did he really deserve this for hoping he didn't have to? Was this really his lot, to have no one and nothing to rely on except his memory and his own overwhelming self-loathing?

Edward would fear him at these times. The themes were always similar but the words were always different, and they hurt differently every single time. And he didn't want to be hurt like this anymore. If he'd wanted that he would have stayed at home and still be hearing it from his father. And he would hate himself for it but he would sit there and take it and let Jonathan do it to him, and when Jonathan would give him one final, knowing nod and release him from the hold of his hollow eyes, Edward would curl into the corner and try to bring himself back together.

All the while there would be a nagging thought in the back of his head, telling him that Jonathan could never truly respect a man who cowered in the face of his fears. That he just proved Jonathan right, time and time again, when he let him crouch down and verbally stab him over and over and over. And somehow the next time Jonathan began to do it, the next time he reached out to ghost his fingers alongside Edward's face, Edward pushed that hand away.

Something flashed in Jonathan's eyes but it was too late now. "You can't keep doing this to me," Edward told him. His heart was in his throat but that was fine so long as his voice remained clear.

"What?" Jonathan snapped.

"You can't keep doing this to me," he repeated. "It's not my fault you're tired. It's not my fault you can't sleep. You can't keep sitting in front of me like that and saying all of those things on purpose just to mess with me. I'm not going to keep taking it. If you don't stop, I'll…" What _was_ he going to do? There was only one thing he could think of, and it honestly didn't sound all that threatening. "I'll go to the administrative office right now and create a transfer for myself for tomorrow morning. I'll just leave if you can't get a handle on yourself. I'll solve the problem _for_ you."

Jonathan's face somehow paled and panic flicked across his features. "You… what?"

"If you do not stop taking your misery out on me, I'm leaving," Edward clarified, and to his total surprise Jonathan actually seemed to be… _distressed_ by this.

"You… you wouldn't do that. You wouldn't leave."

"I would! I don't want to, but I will. I will go down there right now and do it. I will walk away, because _you_ refuse to. You can't talk to me like that today and call me your friend tomorrow. I didn't tell you all the things my father said so you could repeat them whenever you felt the need to hurt me."

Jonathan seemed to be attempting to regain himself. He was blinking rapidly and visually searching in front of him for something, his hands clenching and unclenching. "I…"

"What," Edward said. "Look, Jon. I get it. You're tired. You're cranky. I'm the only one you can screw with and that's all you have to look forward to. But that doesn't matter. You can't keep talking to me like that. I'd honestly rather you hit me instead. But this, this is different. You keep doing this and I'm going to end up connecting you to my father. And I'm not sticking around _anyone_ who reminds me of my father."

"I would never do that!" Jonathan protested, and he actually did look panicked now, his fingers gripping the edge of the mattress. "I would never hurt you like that, Edward!"

"That's my point! You _are_! You _are_ doing that! It wasn't just being hit that bothered me, it was _everything_! And you _know_ that, I know you do because I _told_ you!" Edward shook his head and leaned back against the wall. "You do it on purpose. No. That's not right. It's Scarecrow who does it. He just looks like you."

Jonathan rubbed at his eyes, his glasses riding up on his fingers. "No, sometimes I – "

"No, you don't," Edward interrupted. "You're a psychiatrist. A teacher. You went to school all those years because you wanted to educate people, not hurt them. You don't _want_ to hurt people, and you don't _want_ to hurt me. But you get lost in that Scarecrow of yours and he tells you the only thing that makes them listen is fear, that everything is governed by fear and that's the only way to make anyone understand. But that's _wrong_ , Jon, and you know that. I don't want to be afraid of you. But you condition me to be every time you do this. You need to start controlling this or I really am going to transfer myself someplace else. I really will leave. I can't keep letting myself get beat up like this anymore."

"No, don't – don't – " He was pressing harder on his eyes, his hands trembling more than usual. "I'm – I'm so tired, Edward, I haven't slept in three days and everything is – it's all blurring together and I – I have no idea what you're talking about. I can't remember anything, I just – I don't know what he did. You have to give me time to figure it out."

"Jon, I can _try_ , but…" He wasn't sure how to put it. It sounded so callous, even in his head. "I can't let you take me down with you. That doesn't help either of us. If we need separated, that's what I'll do. If you're not capable of looking out for our best interest, I have to."

"Just… give me time, I just… God, I'm so tired."

Jonathan pressed his fingers back into the bedsheet and his eyes wandered somewhat hopelessly. They were bloodshot and every line in his face seemed to have been carved there. Even more startling was when Jonathan put one of his hands overtop Edward's and said, "Forgive me a little longer, Edward, I… I can't think right now, except…"

"Except what," Edward pressed as gently as he could, tentatively taking the hand offered him and grasping it in both his own.

"Don't leave. Not yet. Don't – "

Jonathan pressed his face into his free arm and went quiet. Mostly.

When Edward realised Jonathan was crying he felt his stomach melt again. He wanted to leave the room then and there – he hadn't signed up for this! – but then again Jonathan probably didn't want to be in the room either. And if he was really honest with himself, he wanted to leave because he was afraid. Afraid, because he didn't know what to do or what the fallout from this was going to be, or what it meant for tomorrow or any day after that. But Jonathan himself was probably terrified of those things, if he was able to think of them at all. Edward had known the insomnia was bad, but he hadn't known staying awake for three days in a lunatic asylum was even possible.

Edward's real problem was that he had no idea what to do when Jonathan was upset because he'd never _seen_ him upset before. Jonathan was almost always composed, in full control of himself. He simply didn't _know_ him well enough. There were several options for helping someone in emotional distress, but which one did _Jonathan_ want?

He settled on stroking Jonathan's hair softly; not as intrusive as a hug would have been, but enough that Jonathan would be aware that he was trying. That he was there at all. Now that his own mind had settled a little he was able to run through the symptoms of sleep deprivation: increased emotionality, reduced conscious decision-making, hallucinations, and memory problems. The more he considered it, the more it seemed as though Jonathan's Scarecrow persona had been protecting him from all of those things, had allowed him to function when he himself could not. It worked, but it would have killed him within the next couple of days. He honestly should have dropped days ago. God, what had happened in his childhood to strengthen his will so deeply?

And Jonathan _knew_ that he was near to breaking. That was where the Scarecrow had come from in the first place: it existed to protect Jonathan from his fears so that he would not break. He had learned over time to handle them, but the persona had never gone away. Because Jonathan still believed he needed it.

"I'm not going anywhere, Jon," he said, in case he needed to hear it said. "I'm staying right here."

After a few minutes Jonathan lifted his head and pulled his hand back, using it and the other to wipe at his face. His breathing was still jagged and he sniffled every few seconds. His eyes were still very wet.

"What have you done to me," he said, not at all in Edward's direction. "I haven't… it's been a long time since I cried like that."

"You said it yourself, you're tired. You start to fall apart when you're sleep deprived. Come here." He gestured at the space next to himself.

Jonathan stared dully at the wall for a minute. "I thought you were angry with me," he said finally, in a voice just as dull. "Why would you want me to sit there."

"I wasn't _angry_ ," Edward told him. "I just… wanted you to stop talking like my father. I don't want to associate you with him."

Jonathan pulled himself onto the bed next to Edward with what seemed to be a lot of effort. It probably was. Without his persona to keep the effects of sleep deprivation at bay, it was likely that existing at this point was difficult. He put an arm around Jonathan and was a little surprised when Jonathan allowed himself to be led onto Edward's shoulder. There was nothing to him, Asylum pyjamas aside; he was all bone, but light. Birdlike, almost. And cold, as though his heart didn't beat at all.

"Try to sleep for a bit." Maybe he just needed the sensation of safety to clear some of the insomnia. God knows Edward could have used it now and again.

"I can't," Jonathan answered, though he didn't sound like he was going to be moving anytime soon. "If we get too friendly they really will transfer you out."

"I'll just tell them the truth if they ask. You're delusional due to insomnia and you had no idea what was going on when you fell asleep on me." He shrugged. Sometimes the best lie was the truth.

"Edward, I… I don't remember what it was I said, and I can't promise I won't do it again. It's in my nature to break a man open to see what's inside. That being said… I will do my best not to."

"All right," Edward said in answer. They would discuss it later. Just then Jonathan needed quiet so that he could sleep. And he did, right there against Edward's shoulder, silent and still. Edward only ended up dozing himself, shifting between wakefulness and semi-consciousness, and Jonathan didn't move at all. Which was mostly the reason Edward didn't sleep very well. _He_ had to remain still when he usually didn't.

The time came when Edward was indeed asked why Jonathan was lying on him, and he told the morning watch what he had said he would. The man accepted that without question and went on his way.

"Jonathan," Edward hissed, nudging him a little. Jonathan looked up at him without interest.

"Mm."

"It's morning."

"And?"

"You can't stay here."

Jonathan sat up, his joints crackling, though he didn't seem to notice. He looked even more irritated than usual. "I don't quite remember what happened," Jonathan said to him, in a tone dripping with finality, "but I don't want to talk about last night. Or this. Or any of it."

"Why?" Edward leaned forward as Jonathan stood up. "You're not ashamed of any of it, are you?"

"No," Jonathan snapped back. "I just do not want to talk about it."

Edward folded his hands together. If he had to make a guess here, which would be the right one…

"Jon… athan, sometimes you have to let _all_ of yourself get some air, eh? Even those parts of you that… you know… _feel_ things. Even things you have no control over."

Jonathan looked him over for a minute. When he turned around he said, "You can call me Jon if you want."

"Oh," was all Edward could think of on short notice.

"Never call me Jonny. Jon is fine, but not out there please, I don't want it to become a trend."

Edward spread his hands. "I can just keep calling you Jonathan. It's not an issue."

"No, it's… it's fine." Jonathan sat down on his bed and rubbed at his eyes. "I don't mind it from you." He folded his hands together and braced them on his knees. "And… this is going to sound ridiculous, but… this is all new to me, all right? I was never one for friends. Or acquaintances, really."

"But you kissed me," Edward frowned. More than once! "Why would you do that if – "

"I didn't… quite think it through," Jonathan interrupted. "This is leading off what you just said. I never considered that I wouldn't always be the director of things, so to speak. But that's not how it works, is it. Sometimes you are going to be the one running the show."

Edward wasn't sure if that was meant rhetorically or not. He decided against commenting.

He covered his face again, glasses and all. "God, I am tired," he muttered, mostly to himself.

They remained separated as always once they were sent off into the daily grind, but in between breakfast and their respective therapy sessions Edward pressed a square of napkin into Jonathan's hand when he had a discreet second. He always had a pencil on him, just in case, and he'd quickly doodled a caricature of one of the supervisors they mutually disliked in the hopes of cheering him up a little. Even a tiny bit. He looked exhausted and miserable and really should have been allowed to sit the day out. Then again when you looked down your nose at everyone nobody was willing to do you favours, which was basically his situation. Edward had a little bit of pull with some of the guards, none of which were currently on duty unfortunately, but maybe he would be able to arrange something later. Or perhaps not, because he really didn't need to be asked why he cared whether or not the Scarecrow, whom he was supposed to have strained relations with at best, was able to get extra time to deal with his insomnia.

He didn't look at Edward, nor even try to. But when he had a second to unfold the napkin and look at it, hidden inside of his long hand, he did smile, just a little.

Later in the day Edward ended up with a scrap of paper in his lap – he of course got all of his pencils from Jonathan, who had quite the stash in the basement – when he was sitting in a chair in the corner, watching Cameron and Garfield argue over who got what colour checkers. He was about ready to referee them himself, they were so irritating. He didn't even notice that Jonathan had come up behind him at first, but when he saw the bit of paper roll onto his pants he looked around for the source, to find Jonathan silently on his way to the other side of the room.

Jonathan was no great artist and so the paper didn't contain that; it held one of the two riddles that Jonathan knew. Edward considered it for a minute or so and then put down an answer that was both incredibly ridiculous and that satisfied the conditions. He wasn't able to give it to Jonathan until they were put back into their cell for the night, but that turned out to be fine because when Jonathan read it he actually laughed.

"What in the hell is this," he asked, looking at Edward somewhat incredulously.

"It's an answer," Edward told him amusedly. "It wasn't the answer you expected, but it's an answer."

"So it is." Jonathan crumpled it back up and pushed it underneath his pillow. He wasn't exactly trying to keep it, but he couldn't be caught with it either. "I have acquired chalk."

And they sat on the floor and played Naughts and Crosses in the dimness of the emergency lights down the hall. The board had to be very large because Jonathan could barely see it even when he squinted, but it still went well. When they bored of that they played three rounds of Hangman, mostly because Edward always won and that wasn't too much fun for Jonathan. But in Edward's opinion Jonathan's words were too easy to guess, because they always had to do with his areas of expertise and he often tried to trip Edward up with technical terms, though it never worked.

Jonathan was able to sleep that night, thankfully. They worked out an arrangement where Jonathan would just tell Edward if he had a sleepless night, and if it turned out he was going to have a second one he would wake Edward up and they would play a game:

Jonathan would supply the chalk, which he pilfered on a regular basis, and Edward would acquire the flashlights, and they would go down to one of the basements. They would each pick an end point and place whatever personal item they were allowed to have that day there, and then mark a trail back to the beginning. Edward of course used question marks and Jonathan would use either scarecrow faces or lopsided pumpkins, depending on how artistic he was feeling. The number of marks had to be within reason – no marking solely the origin and the end point – and whoever retrieved the item and made it back to the starting position won. The marks were usually placed as ridiculously as possible so as to prevent each other from seeing them. Jonathan would put his on ledges or inside air vents that Edward could neither reach nor fit into, and Edward often employed decoy marks that sent Jonathan in the entire wrong direction. The game was both stupid and silly, but it was entertaining, even that one time they realised they put the items in approximately the same spot and started shoving at each other on the way there. Jonathan's glasses fell down an old grate and Edward hit the floor so hard his nose started bleeding, but neither of them were bothered by it. Worse things had happened for lesser stakes.

Somehow Jonathan won that round even though he helped attend to Edward's nose _and_ he couldn't see where he was going on the way back. When Edward returned after putting the flashlights away and stealing Jonathan's spare glasses from one of the holding lockers, he'd congratulated him for once instead of lying down on his bed and sulking, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong. He had sat down on the edge of Jonathan's bed where he was sitting cross-legged, intending to offer a handshake, but what he got instead was those long fingers wrapped around his head and shoulders to pull him close while Jonathan kissed him with great enthusiasm. Edward had been frozen both by shock and by his unwitting reluctance to give a man his trust, but when both of those had worn off he had smiled and Jonathan had laughed and told him he was blushing. Edward had had to protest that, of course, and that somehow escalated to another shoving match where they both fell off the bed entangled in the sheet and neither of them could figure out where their legs were.

Edward would have happily argued that _he_ had won the game that night.

 **Author's note**

 **I know Jonathan might be acting a little weird here, but if you've ever not slept for 24 hours you know you get really weird. Not sleeping for 72 hours must be maximum weird.**


	9. Part the Ninth

Part the Ninth

The days were fun in their own way, of course, since they pretended to hate and barely tolerate each other, exchanging a lot of dirty - or disdainful, on Jonathan's part - looks or starting silly rumours about the other that had no grounding in reality whatsoever or something else along those lines. It was their private game that they were winning overwhelmingly, and they both enjoyed it. Not, however, as much as they did the nights.

Jonathan more or less decided what was going to happen, which Edward didn't mind. Jonathan had plans and he didn't. He also had a personal interest in how a man who had never been in any sort of relationship thought how one should best be engaged in. He seemed to base his every action off of mutual respect. He demanded a high level of this from Edward, and in truth it was not hard to provide. Sometimes he played around with the boundaries of it but he was usually prescient enough not to go too far.

Jonathan, bless his shrivelled heart, became increasingly tolerant of Edward's shenanigans. Many things he would have snapped into silence for in the past were now merely met with a tired look or a shake of the head or, if Edward was particularly exasperating, an eye roll combined with the usual two. But it was something Jonathan needed of Edward, to increase his comfort level so that they could interact more easily. Jonathan was slowly opening to him a little bit at a time, and the thrill was unlike anything Edward had ever felt. Coming to know a person who kept themselves hidden was always an exciting challenge, but knowing that it came of an increasing trust and respect... it was somehow more rewarding than if it had been done any other way.

Sometimes at night they would go to Jonathan's lab and work separately in silence. Or near so, since Edward had a habit of filling that if ever it cropped up. Initially this bothered Jonathan greatly, but he seemed to have accepted it was something Edward couldn't really help and tuned it out as he did everything else. Many nights Jonathan would sit on Edward's bed and they would just talk until Edward fell asleep, and when Jonathan woke up sometime before morning rounds he would go to his own bed to keep the secret. Edward preferred this because he got most, if not all, of Jonathan's attention, and there would be a subtle game beneath the conversation where one would figure out a clever way to get their hands clasped together, or to get Edward against Jonathan, or both. Usually it was both. Sometimes it was neither because Edward would suddenly get terribly, undeniably uneasy about his proximity to a man, especially one as tall as Jonathan was, and he would shift more to the other side of the bed and fold his arms together instead. Jonathan would still push sometimes and once or twice Edward was able to fight off the anxiety, but more often it would kill the easy mood entirely and he would turn on his side and close his eyes. Jonathan would not stay when that happened and neither of them were ever happy about it.

Sometimes when they'd gotten to the leaning and the handholding Jonathan would caress his arm or press his face into Edward's hair, and that would feel nice enough that he would feel okay. Jonathan then often would kiss him softly, always on his brow first, and Edward would try very hard to keep the memories that conjured up from bothering him. But he couldn't. Before his eyes again would be the light-slashed concrete wall and the tingling left by hands larger than his clasping his arms, and he would have to stop. Jonathan would listen, of course, but he was getting increasingly frustrated. Edward understood completely; he would have been frustrated too, if he had had the ability to through his shame and self-flagellation. But more than that, he was becoming upset with himself for disappointing Jonathan. It was Edward's fault that their relationship had come to a standstill, not just the physical aspect but also every other aspect possible. He didn't have the full measure of Jonathan because Jonathan had a hard time allowing it; Jonathan didn't have his full measure because he was withholding it on purpose.

He still, after all this time, could not bring himself to trust a man. Not even this man, who had done nothing except be so patient as to rival the concept of Father Time himself.

Edward thought he might be able to allow it this time; Jonathan had pressed their lips together and, while it didn't inspire a lot in him because he was overthinking and distracted, it went fine. But then he closed his eyes at the same time Jonathan's hold on him tightened, and he stopped breathing. His fingers scrabbled on instinct for Jonathan's arm, to wrench it free before he even had a moment to think about what he was doing, and despite the haze his desperation cast he was quite aware that something was different. The tightness in his gut was not because of his imagination this time.

Jonathan got up, and his fists were clenched, and for a horrible moment Edward thought Jonathan was going to lash out this time. He felt like a boy all over again, curled up and eyes closed so he at least wouldn't have to see it, hand half-furled on an arm extended in a useless gesture of protest. His breath was frozen in his chest, his teeth on his tongue to keep him silent. But it didn't come.

Jonathan was standing, a foreboding shadow in the darkness, one arm bent against the wall and braced with a closed fist. Edward lost his nerve for a moment, but managed a dry exhale of "Jonathan?"

"I'm going to kill him," Jonathan murmured, and his tone took Edward back to the winters he had left behind. His voice held the same hopeless chill of a dry and bitter wind, of a steel-grey sky thick with snow that seemed as though it meant to fall forever. Of being caught out at night as the air slipped steadily colder, shivering into a scarf that held the only warmth in all the world.

Jonathan wanted to kill him?

"I wanted to break you, at first," Jonathan continued, in much the same harsh and wintry way. "Ah, had you been the man you should be it would have been a rare treat. Normally I prefer to get to the point, but you... you were one of the few."

It had all been a game after all?

He had hardly felt so weak and helpless before.

"But look at you," Jonathan said, his eyes clearly visible in the dark as he looked over his shoulder. "You were shattered long ago. A craven child masquerading as a functioning adult. It's pathetic. It's disappointing. You let him keep on living though long as he does he will always hold that fist over you in threat. And you know that. You know you won't ever achieve your potential while still he lives. I have tried to be patient. I have tried to be helpful. I have given you more of myself than ever I have given anyone. And yet you still hide behind your problems so that you do not have to do the same. I'm starting to wonder if you actually want to help yourself, or if you want any of this at all. What is it, then, Edward? Do you only allow those who hit you to get close? Anyone else is just part of your game, is that it?"

Oh God.

"No," Edward managed, and he sat up somehow though his hands were hard to control. "No, that – "

"Then what?" Jonathan snapped. "I can hardly _touch_ you without you becoming apprehensive. You only like to talk when you've nothing of substance to say. How are we to have a relationship of any depth if you continually push me away? I am trying damned hard and I am not seeing any effort from you. This isn't going to work if you keep on like this."

"It's my fault," was all he was able to whisper, and he got up and fumbled with the door lock. He needed to get out of there. He didn't know where he was going. Somewhere. He was terrified that Jonathan was going to do it this time, was going to hit him and pressure him like all the rest, and he needed to go. There was one nagging kernel of rationality that told him he was being silly, but it wasn't enough. It never had been. "It's my fault and I'm sorry."

"What? Where are you going?"

He got the door open and stepped into the hallway. He didn't care if he was caught, not this time. He didn't _want_ to go to Solitary, but he would achieve the goal at least of getting out of there if that were to happen. It was hard to breathe and he hoped he got out of there before Jonathan decided to bring him back.

Jonathan wouldn't bring him back. Edward was overreacting.

He wasn't! Jonathan had just taken his time, that was all, when most people just snatched him up and were done with it. Jonathan had wanted to take him psychologically too, he'd said so!

No, he had changed his mind. Only at first had he wanted to break him. It was different now.

It couldn't be different. Jonathan was lying. Jonathan was lying to get what he wanted.

He was stuck standing there in the hallway, fingers pressed into his skull because the thoughts _would not stop_!

"Edward."

Shit.

"Edward!"

He had no choice now.

He ran.

He moved through the darkness to Jonathan's bed and sat on the end of it. He was a little concerned that Jonathan was on his side and his glasses were under the bed, two things that never happened, but when he saw what was under there with the glasses it made a little more sense. A prescription bottle of zolpidem. It was made out to Jonathan himself, so he'd somehow gotten it into the Asylum and hidden it for later use. Edward pressed his back to the wall and pulled the blanket over his legs. Jonathan never used it anyway.

After sitting against the wall in one of the basement hallways, with time enough to calm down and focus on what was actually happening and not on what had happened with other people quite a while ago, he had started to think he'd overreacted. A lot. On the one hand, there was no way he could have helped it, but on the other… it was Jonathan. Yes, Edward was reminded of things he had some horrible deep-seated fear of when Jonathan got like that… but he knew if ever Jonathan did somehow hurt him, it would be unintentional, and he would do his best to fix it. As he always did. Edward didn't think he'd even care if Jonathan roughed him up a bit, as long as there was some measure of… recuperation afterward that was, if it weren't for his damned father. None of this was any easier for Jonathan. And yet Jonathan was right. He was doing all the work, and getting nothing for it. Edward needed to actually put effort into this whole thing if he wanted it to be successful, and… and he did. He did want that. He wanted to feel _safe_ when Jonathan held him, not _scared_! He needed to stop being so complacent with himself! Jonathan was right. Edward was dragging his feet on this whole thing out of a baseless fear.

Jonathan stirred, sitting up almost immediately, though his face screwed up just as quickly. He pressed a hand into his forehead and leaned against the wall, groaning. "Oh, God," he mumbled. "Now I remember why I stopped taking those."

"Looks like a killer headache," Edward agreed. Jonathan's fingers parted to reveal a bloodshot eye.

"What… why are you here."

Edward shifted positions a little. He was beginning to lose feeling in his butt. "I thought through what happened. I feel like… like I overreacted. Somewhat."

"No." Jonathan shook his head. "No, you… most people react like you do."

"Exactly!" Edward snapped. "I'm better than them! And if my boyfriend wants to kiss me he should be able to do that! Without me breaking down over some moron whose opinion I care about far more than I should!"

"… boyfriend?"

Edward threw up his hands. "I don't let my buddies kiss me, Jon!"

Jonathan shook his head and buried it in the wall again. "I don't know, Edward! I've never been in a relationship before. I haven't the foggiest what does and doesn't happen!" His fingers seemed to dig into his forehead. "I went too far. And if this last… God, I don't even know how long it's been, but… Edward, if this is too much for you I will drop it right now. I feel as though I overstep your boundaries constantly at this point. I'll get over it. I realised there's something that's far more important to me and that is what I hope I still have."

"What?"

"Even," Jonathan said, gesturing vaguely, "solely as allies, I have always received from you something I never thought I could hope to have. Respect, Edward."

Edward frowned, a little uncomfortable with this line of thought. "A lot of people respect you. Believe me, I hear everything." Including the lack of respect towards himself, though the flip side was that he was always underestimated. But Jonathan shook his head before Edward had finished.

"They respect Scarecrow. Not me. Not Jonathan. You didn't have to help me when I got here, but you did. I fully expected to get the same here as everywhere else. Not you. No, you needed all the information before you could judge me. You waited a damn long time for it, too." He crossed his arms across his chest. He looked exhausted, despite the zolpidem. "In truth, part of me is still waiting for the joke. I'm still waiting to figure out just what use you've been planning to implement me for."

"None," Edward said. "You don't believe I get any respect, do you? Every third person on the street thinks I work for Joker, or I'm a lookalike, hell, some people think I retired. But that isn't even the point. You and me, we're smarter than everyone else in this dump. You might not be a genius, like me, but you know how to work for it. That is very valuable, my friend." He shook his head. "There's no joke, Jonathan. How could there possibly be, when the joke was always me?"

Jonathan looked so sad.

"Don't talk about yourself like that."

Edward spread his hands. "I'm not. It's common knowledge. Common wrong knowledge, but an elaborate scheme that will show everyone just how wrong they are is a lot of planning. But no one will ever forget when I'm ready to show them, that's for certain."

"That's the spirit," Jonathan said tiredly, and he winced, moving his arms to cover his stomach.

"What?"

"I'm starving."

He must not have appreciated Edward's incredulous stare because he rolled his eyes and said, "Don't say it."

"I was beginning to think you existed entirely on air. Come. We'll fix that." He jumped off the bed – all right, he got his feet stuck and _fell_ off the bed – and extended a gallant hand once he'd gained his footing. Jonathan only frowned.

"What on earth are you talking about."

"We're going to get some food, Jonathan. Let's go."

"We can't just leave!"

"Of course we can!" Edward declared. "Hurry up, my arm is getting tired."

Jonathan just gave Edward a look that was decidedly unimpressed. "You are fully aware that I cannot see it."

Now Edward rolled his eyes, bending over and retrieving the glasses that he then slapped into Jonathan's hand. "Come on Jonathan, we haven't got all night!"

"And just where do you think we're going?"

He pulled Jonathan to sitting with a little more violence than he intended. He always forgot the man weighed about as much as a bag of feathers. "Out to eat. I told you that."

"Eddie, do we have to do this right now?" He was rubbing at his head again. "I don't know if I'm up to one of your little adventures."

"Jonathan, there's no need to be a grumpy old man about it. We're not going that far. We're getting you some food. Let's go."

"I am not old," Jonathan argued, but he stood up and followed Edward into the hall.

"Oh, did I say that out loud?" Edward checked the corridor ahead and then pulled Jonathan after him. "Your shoe size is what, twelve?"

"Eleven and a half," Jonathan answered resentfully. Edward rolled his eyes. He seemed to be doing a lot of that today. He held up a hand for Jonathan to stop.

"Wait here."

"For what?"

"Will you shut up for ten minutes, Jonathan! Do me a favour and never take zolpidem again. You have become unbearably cranky." Edward unlocked the door of one of the guard rooms and procured the both of them some shoes. They were both going to have to make do, somewhat; he could only find sizes twelve and eight. Edward was actually lucky to get the eight at all. He usually had to stuff paper in the toes of a nine and hope they didn't fall off. He brought the shoes back outside and proffered the larger ones to Jonathan. "They only had a twelve. Unless you wanted a ten."

"No," Jonathan said, accepting them and dropping them to the floor with a clunking noise. "Twelve is fine. I just like to pretend it's eleven and a half."

"I like to pretend I fit into eights, but that's not going to change anything. Come on." He waved Jonathan down the hall after him. Leaving Jonathan by himself temporarily, Edward traded his Asylum glasses for a pair of his custom ones after a moment in the basement. He then got the two of them out one of the ancient smoking doors, technically boarded up but accessible to any inmate thrifty enough, and they walked around the outside of the Asylum. Walked wasn't really the right word, for Edward at least. Edward had to treat the encroaching shrubbery more or less like an obstacle course. Jonathan didn't even seem to notice it was there.

"Edward," Jonathan said, after they had reached the cornerstone, "I… my behaviour was out of line."

"Don't worry about it," Edward told him, as he tripped over a final bush. Jonathan grabbed his arm in an automatic sort of way, not looking at Edward at all but seeming to have expected it. "Sometimes you just have to be your ornery self. I get it."

Jonathan laughed, just a little. "I'm really not that old."

"I know how old you are." Edward had of course looked into Jonathan's file a long time ago and learned he was approaching his late thirties; their age difference was substantial but as long as they held the same honesty and respect for each other they had been striving for since the beginning, that would not be a problem. Edward was actually a little grateful for the altercation that night. He felt like he could breathe easier, somehow. Maybe it was due only to his own decision to commit to this, instead of wait for Jonathan to prove his suspicions correct. His irrational, unfounded suspicions, based on something people nothing like Jonathan had done. He would do better. And he would do it right now.

He grabbed Jonathan's hand.

Jonathan instantly stopped walking and looked down at their hands as though Edward had removed his entirely. During this little staring session Edward realised it was the first time he had done any such thing. Every other time Jonathan had been the instigator. Jonathan had already expressed his discontent with not being able to control such situations… maybe Edward should have taken a page from his own book and asked first.

He looked away and went to extract his hand, but Jonathan seemed to recover and disallowed it. They stood there in strained silence for a long moment. The moon was barely visible behind the cloud cover, bathing everything in an unsettling greyness. Edward set his teeth and tried to stop staring vaguely at the horizon as he wondered if this had been a good idea after all.

"Lead the way, then," Jonathan said finally, and it wasn't quite true but Edward felt as though his voice allowed him to take his first breath in a few minutes.

It wasn't that hard to leave the Asylum if you did so at the proper time; people who worked the night shift weren't the brightest bulbs nor the most attentive ones, and tonight the person at the guard post was one of the sleepier fellows. The Asylum was perpetually underfunded and the administrative staff generally kept quiet that things had broken, but nothing got past Edward. The broken thing in question, which had been dysfunctional for about three months now, was the front gate alarm.

"It can't be this easy," Jonathan murmured as Edward pushed hard on one side of the gate. It was automated, but gave if one applied enough force. Edward shook his head.

"The amount of things that don't work around here would astound you."

"The _front gate?_ "

They made it through the sliver of freedom that Edward managed to gain and continued on, to the bridge. There was no one on it, of course; many a Gothamite believed that the Asylum was haunted by the ghost of old Amadeus himself. It was dark, however, and casual pedestrians at this hour often took a deadly plunge. Edward changed the lens on his glasses and led Jonathan onto it.

"They figure the bridge is deterrent enough if anyone figures out the alarm is broken. It is, really; it's a long walk during the night and during the day impossible."

"Then why are we just sojourning and not escaping entirely?"

Edward smiled up at him.

"Because we can."

Jonathan sighed.

"You and your games. And your gimmicks. In all seriousness are those lenses _necessary_?"

"Of course," Edward said, containing his glee with difficulty. "They're _night-vision_ lenses."

From his silence Edward figured he had quieted Jonathan with his brilliance once again. Standing a little straighter, he asked, "You didn't think _I_ would own _average_ glasses, did you?"

Just then he got his foot stuck in a pothole and would have hit the asphalt entirely if not for Jonathan's hold on his hand. He righted himself and stared in another direction, biting his lip. Jonathan laughed.

"You deserved that."

Maybe.

Just off the bridge was their destination, a small diner that was open quite late because the people who worked there had no better place to be. That, and it was frequented by Asylum staff and inmates on their way out. Edward released Jonathan's hand as they came up to it, pushing open the door for Jonathan who crossed the threshold without a word. Edward reset his lenses and took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust, then followed.

From behind the counter where she was no doubt scrubbing at one of the perpetually dull pieces of cutlery the place used, the server who took care of these late evenings looked up and smiled when she saw him. She immediately came out from behind the counter, moving around the cracked tables whose edges were all peeling plastic and particleboard, set with yellowing placards carefully righted between smudged salt and pepper shakers. She was an older woman on the larger side and had never once failed to greet Edward with enthusiasm. It was one of the many reasons he paid her so much.

"Edward!" she proclaimed, giving him the usual boisterous hug, which he returned as always. He liked this, but it always made him a little sad for some reason. Fine, he _knew_ the reason. He just didn't like to think about it.

"Good evening, Ainsley, my dear," Edward said, and he kissed her on the brow for the hell of it. He didn't do that every time he saw her, but on occasion he got the notion and she had never seemed to mind. "How are things?"

"Boring," she answered, and winked. He knew that actually meant she hadn't talked to anyone _interesting_ lately, which was fine. A little bothersome, but fine. She looked to Jonathan. "And who is this?"

"Friend of mine," Edward said noncommittally. "He'll have a coffee and myself my usual, if you please."

"Of course," Ainsley said, and she turned away in quite a confident fashion that Edward appreciated. She disappeared behind the kitchen wall to retrieve the coffee pot, where the night time kitchen staff liked to keep it.

Edward usually sat at the counter, mostly so Ainsley could take care of work and chat at the same time and partially because doing so made him feel taller, but he suspected Jonathan wouldn't feel similarly about such a seat. He slid into a booth at random instead, and Jonathan joined him on the other side. There seemed enough room for his legs where the table itself didn't interfere.

Jonathan folded those long fingers together and stared out of the window. There wasn't much to see, mostly because they were not all that clean. He seemed cold suddenly, as though he'd somehow seen something outside he disliked. Edward frowned.

"What?"

"You were flirting with her."

Oh, not this again.

"So? She knows it's not serious and so do I. We're just having fun."

"She's not even attractive enough to meet your standards in women."

Edward tried very hard not to roll his eyes. He didn't succeed. "Jonathan. Your jealousy, while flattering and reassuring, is unfounded. And by the way yes, she is. Confidence makes even the most homely of ladies beautiful. And she has plenty of that."

Ainsley reappeared with the drinks and a pair of menus, which she deposited in front of them with a flourish. Edward smiled and thanked her as Jonathan ignored her entirely. When she'd gone Jonathan murmured, "I do not like sharing."

"You're not _sharing_ ," Edward told him, unsure whether he should be flattered or wary of such a comment. He wasn't an object for Jonathan to possess, after all. "If I wanted to have her I would already. But that would be unprofessional." In truth, he'd considered it, but that would have taken some of the levity out of their interactions. He valued that a great deal more than he would any intimate relations.

Jonathan frowned at him.

"She works for me," Edward clarified, opening the menu though he'd already memorised it long ago. "All the people who work the night shift do. And some of them during the day."

Jonathan idly turned the cover over on his own menu with one finger, and Edward wondered how long it would take him to read it. He was still looking at Edward, he could feel it. "What does working for you entail?"

Edward shrugged and took an experimental sip of his drink. It was still a little too hot. "Passing along information. It's an easy job for a place like this. Lots of Asylum staff come in here on their way home. Plenty of escapees needing something to eat after disappearing and skulking around here in hiding for a few days before they move on. That sort of thing. They listen to the rumours and sell them to me. I pay very well."

Jonathan eyed the photographs on the page in front of him before turning it. "You must have a great deal of money."

"It's hard to be successful without it." It was also very hard to acquire suitable clothes. The availability of green suits was surprisingly sparse.

"Do people often inquire about loans?"

"Yes, but not directly. I have people to take care of that for me." He smiled as sweetly as possible, which was pretty damn sweetly if he said so himself. "But friends needn't ask for such things. I will happily fund you if you ask nicely."

Jonathan tried not to smile. He didn't quite make it. "Are you going to make me say 'please' if such an occasion arises?"

"It would be nice."

Ainsley returned, and Edward had to admire that she had outstanding customer service even when the most impolite of all people were put under her care. Jonathan quite vaguely and not at all in her direction ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, though when he said he did not want the fries Edward interrupted to say that he would have them. It wasn't really that he was hungry more than that since he was there he might as well have some _real_ food.

Jonathan was magically able to look away from the window when they were alone again and took a long drink of his coffee. He seemed relieved to do so, though Edward wasn't sure why. He said, his voice low, "She truly means nothing to you?"

"No," Edward said, as honestly as he could. "Well, I mean yes, she does, but not in the same way that you – "

As soon as he heard it he shut up, sitting back stiffly against the cracked linoleum of the booth seat and looking in the direction of the kitchen. From it he could just barely hear the steady cadence of some beat or other. At night the kitchen staff could listen to music as loudly as they liked and they took full advantage of this.

He had no idea why he'd said that. It had just come out of his mouth without warning. And he had needed a warning. Dammit! It had all been going so well, especially after the… unpleasantness earlier. Why had he said that? Why?

"What's that you're drinking?" Jonathan said, somehow as though Edward had not said something really – well, it wasn't _stupid_ , not entirely, but unneeded right now certainly – and Edward glanced at his cup for a moment before he answered,

"Hot chocolate."

Jonathan's smile, though barely existent, was somewhat… fond. "I should have guessed," he murmured, folding his hands around his own drink.

"What?"

"You are so very _boyish_. You have a youth inside your heart. That's not an insult, by the way. It's very valuable. Preserve it as best you can. You won't get it back."

Edward folded his hands together around the cup and stared into it.

"I think someone made it for me once," he said finally, unsure if he wanted to get into this. "I can't remember."

"Your mother?" Jonathan said, somehow firmly and kindly at the same time. He was scrutinising Edward again. The psychologist in him wanting more pieces of the puzzle.

Ah, why not. Edward had been withholding things long enough.

"Maybe," he answered, and he took a drink before continuing. "I can't remember her. I used to try a lot when I was a kid. Stared at the ceiling for hours trying to come up with just one impression. Hair colour, a shirt she wore, what she smelled like. But I never came up with anything." Sometimes he still did that, though rarely; it was frustrating to have something important like that unremembered. He could never figure out whether he truly did not remember or if he was hiding it from himself for some reason only his very young self knew.

"Are you angry with her as well?"

He'd tried to be, many times, but it was hard to do so when there were many other people who had done things he could remember so close at hand. "No."

"She abandoned you."

Ah, what a subtle dig. Cautious, but inquisitive. Edward nodded. "She did. But I can't blame her. I got out as soon as I could too."

Even after the food arrived, Edward's fries tossed in salt and pepper just the way he liked, Jonathan did not let up. "Even considering what she left you to?"

Edward nodded and sampled one of the fries. It was delicious. "Maybe I wasn't the first. Maybe she tricked him into having me to take the focus off her. Who knows. In any case I can't be angry with someone who effectively doesn't exist." He could, but it was difficult, and mostly a waste of energy to do so.

"If that's what she did she disgusts me even further," Jonathan said with vim, and he bit into the sandwich. Edward frowned.

Jonathan was looking for reasons to dislike his mother?

"Why? Are you going to track her down and give her a piece of your mind?"

"I would show her a piece of hers, certainly," was Jonathan's answer, and he had that predatory look on his face again. Edward had to say that was very flattering. Also unsettling, but mostly flattering.

They both ate in silence after that, broken only by Ainsley bringing Jonathan more coffee; he ignored her so Edward had to act as the proxy, though he doubted Jonathan liked that any better. Oh, but talking to Ainsley was a joy! It was that smile of hers, he decided as he moved onto the last few fries. It rarely left her face. The one time it had, Edward had taken quite a lot of action towards the reason. Jonathan ate very slowly and seemed not to have any fondness for the crusts, but eventually he finished.

Upon their exit Edward acquired a takeaway coffee for Jonathan and when he stood to slip out of the booth Ainsley was there with the usual farewell embrace. He held on longer than he'd really meant and smiled warmly at her once separated. "I'll add that to your usual, my dear," he told her, and she grasped his hand with an answering smile of her own.

"It was so good to see you again, Edward," she told him. "Leave your... friend at home next time, perhaps? I was looking forward to our chat."

Edward glanced in the direction of the door, where Jonathan was eyeing Ainsley with intense dislike. He sighed.

"He's really not that bad. Just difficult. And picky." He clapped a hand on her shoulder. "I will return in a little while. Have a wonderful evening."

He had to catch up to Jonathan then, as he had made his exit and disappeared, but after looking around for a minute he discovered the man had not gone far. He was sitting on the bridge, legs freely over the edge. As Edward approached he took a sip of the coffee, but did not acknowledge when Edward joined him. He sat, leaning back against the railing and folding his arms.

"Are you going to lecture me for being rude," Jonathan said finally. Edward took a long breath.

"No. You are how you are. But your not liking people doesn't mean I dislike them." Edward liked most people, from a distance that was. Once he got to know them he usually felt differently. "There's no need to be jealous, Jonathan." Though it _was_ extremely gratifying.

Jonathan looked out at the river, the crests of which were gently picked out by the sparse moonlight. "I am well aware I have few redeeming qualities. I've never done anything like this before. It's... difficult not to think that someone who better meets your standards will come along."

"I have a feeling this is less about standards and more about your appearance," Edward told him. Jonathan had not looked at him once. "I thought you didn't care about that."

"I didn't, until I did," was Jonathan's answer.

He had never valued anyone's opinion before Edward had come along.

Edward folded his hands onto one thigh. "Look. I'm not going to stop doing it. It's fun, and people who are flattered by me are far more willing to do what I want. But people are like puzzles, Jonathan: you know what they look like on the outside but you don't know how they're made."

"What's your point."

"My _point_ ," Edward said, shaking his head at Jonathan's impatience, "is that it doesn't really matter the appearance of the puzzle, so long as the completion brings what you hoped it would. And in your case, Jonathan, intelligence makes even the most comely of men beautiful."

"I thought that was 'confidence'," Jonathan said, but he was trying not to smile. Edward moved onto his stomach on the edge of the bridge as carefully and yet as casually as he could.

"It's both," he answered. "Confidence is far easier to obtain offhand, however. Intelligence, especially the sort you have, is far preferable. Take Ainsley, for instance. She's a wonderful woman and has confidence to spare for everyone who works at that restaurant, but she's not that smart. Of average intelligence, which is fine for a casual acquaintance. But that's not what you are."

And with that declaration Edward rolled onto his back and put his head in Jonathan's lap.

Jonathan, Edward could see, had no idea what to do about that. His free hand, the left one, hovered uncertainly before Jonathan put his coffee in it and laid the other on Edward's forehead. Even though it had just been wrapped around a warm beverage, it was still cold. It made Edward feel oddly sad, in a way. To never feel warmth, not from people or objects or even oneself… just thinking of it gave Edward the impression of Jonathan standing alone in a darkness, where everything stayed just out of arm's reach. Close enough to see what he couldn't have.

Oh, but things were going so well! He didn't want to think about any of that right now. Right now he was going to think about how he could just see the outline of the bridge in the meagre light, and if he searched especially hard he could see some of the clouds above them. They were alone in the dark, save for the lazy flow of the river below them.

"Have you ever tried to swim away from the Asylum?" Jonathan asked.

Edward yawned, though he tried not to. He didn't want to be rude. But he was getting tired. "No. I'm not a strong swimmer. I know how. But I don't get very far very fast."

"And yet you lie here on the edge of this bridge, knowing if you fell you would most probably drown." His voice was oddly distant, as though he were directing his words at someone else while keeping Edward in the conversation.

"I won't fall. And if I happened to, I'd think of something. It's what I do."

Abruptly Jonathan put the cup aside and moved his hand off Edward's head, everything indicating his getting up. Edward sat and twisted a glance over his shoulder, confused. He didn't believe he'd said anything this time.

"What are you doing?"

"It's late, and you're tired," was Jonathan's response. "Returning to the Asylum is what I'm doing, and so should you."

Edward heaved a breath and stood up. He'd liked being able to do that. He had only met a few women willing to allow him to do so. Or perhaps he just had a strong preference for women who took ownership of his lap. He didn't mind, as many of them had had sensational hair, but so did he! Why didn't anyone want to run their fingers through _his_ hair?

He did so now himself because it had gone out of order on the bridge and followed Jonathan onto the empty stretch of road. He would have taken Jonathan's hand again - he needed to practice, after all - if it hadn't been folded up.

He _had_ said something to anger him, then?

"Jonathan?"

"Mm."

"Did I..." Oh, he did _not_ want to ask. "Did I say something?"

"No," Jonathan answered immediately. "I was imagining something a little too strongly, that's all."

"Really?" That sounded... exciting.

Jonathan's face was sober. "Nothing like that."

"Then what?"

"I was very close to throwing you off the bridge in order to see if you would become afraid."

Edward would have stopped walking to consider that if he hadn't had to move so quickly just to keep pace with Jonathan's strides. "But you didn't."

"How ever did you notice."

"I said that," Edward said impatiently, "because you seem angry with yourself."

Jonathan walked silently for a few moments.

"I am," he finally said, "because I was... enjoying myself, and then I had to start thinking about fear again."

"Give me your hand back."

"What?"

Edward grabbed onto his arm, having to walk a little sideways to be able to look at him while he was doing so. "Your hand. Let me hold it. That'll turn things back around."

"Let go of my arm, then. You can't have both."

Edward could have begged to differ, but instead he did as asked and reclaimed Jonathan's hand. And if he wasn't mistaken - which he never was - Jonathan was holding on a little more actively than he had been before.

Yes, Edward was coming on a little strong after months of never initiating contact at all. But Jonathan's not knowing how to accept it was a little concerning. He was usually fairly affectionate, and he knew that he should be as patient as Jonathan had been about this... but he didn't want to be. And yet he had to do something about that, because if he didn't maybe _Jonathan_ would walk away because Edward wasn't respecting his boundaries...

"You'd tell me if I was being too pushy, wouldn't you?" he forced himself to say, hating that he had to ask. He should know already, shouldn't he?

"Yes," Jonathan answered. "The real issue is that someone wanting to touch me is... foreign."

Edward understood that, in a way. He could find someone if he wanted at any time now, but when he was younger... well, that was a different story entirely.

He put his arm around the back of Jonathan's waist and kept it there until they got to the gate, at which time he had to let go. Jonathan was stiff and had a distinct aura of discomfort but he did not tell Edward to stop. He felt as though he could have wrapped his entire arm around the man with room to spare, which was unsettling honestly, but at the same time it made it a lot easier to walk like that. Some people it was harder to do with than others.

They returned to their shared cell apart and in silence.

There were still several hours to go before the morning rounds came by to wake them up, thankfully, so Edward would be able to get some sleep before then. Jonathan settled into Edward's bedrail with a satisfied grunt, folding his hands over his stomach. "That feels a lot better," Jonathan said, his eyes closed. "Thank you."

"Don't say I never help you out." Edward climbed into the bed next to him, and Jonathan immediately put one arm across his shoulders and pulled him close. His smile was tired and small, but genuine, and Edward wondered just how it was that his eyes seemed to glow even in the dark.

"It wouldn't be true if I did, but I probably will anyway. Just to make you angry."

He didn't even really think about doing it, but before he knew it he had pressed his mouth to Jonathan's, directing Jonathan with a hand buried in the back of his hair. Jonathan stiffened a little, his arm around Edward tensing, but only for a moment. He shifted towards Edward, sliding his hand up behind Edward's head, his response given with the utmost gentleness. An oddly pleasant sensation ran through Edward's stomach, as though it were melting, and he had to turn away for a minute.

"Should I have asked first?" Jonathan murmured into his ear. It tingled.

"No," Edward answered. "No, I just… I needed a second."

"It's been spent," Jonathan said, and Edward laughed and allowed Jonathan to seek his mouth. For a few moments more. But Edward was still tired, and as nice as Jonathan's soft kisses were, he still needed a lot more sleep than Jonathan did. For once, he was not having Jonathan stop because he was uncomfortable. He was both proud of himself and a little embarrassed for being so. It should not have been an achievement, but it was.

He definitely wanted to be at ease more often. He would work on it. Jonathan's affections were… special, unlike any he'd felt before. He wanted more of them, in an almost desperate way. And yet he would never have them if he wasn't willing to take the discomfort that came alongside dealing with his misgivings.

"Going back to sleep, little prince?"

"Yeah," Edward answered, and Jonathan wrapped his hand around Edward's arm again. Jonathan's body was hard, yes, but it was solid. He felt unbreakable. And Edward was under that protection he offered, and that iron will that had kept Jonathan able to pursue him this long though Edward had been less than reciprocal. It was so comforting. Not safe. Not yet. But comforting. "Jon, you know something?"

"I know a great deal of things, but not which one you're talking about."

"You really have beautiful eyes."

"… do I?"

"Yes." Edward wrapped his free arm, the one that wasn't more or less pinned to Jonathan's ribs, around his chest. "They… hold light, somehow."

"I was always told they were… eerie."

"They are. The two aren't mutually exclusive."

"Thank you," Jonathan said finally, and he held Edward ever tighter. "I… never imagined I'd hear such a thing."

"You lucky devil," Edward mumbled, and Jonathan kissed the top of his head softly.

"Hush."

 **Author's note**

 **I know it might seem a stretch that people working at the Asylum would slack off during the night shift, but I worked the night shift at a fast food place for four years and probably half the people I worked with barely did a thing. They would go to sleep in the corner and ignore everything entirely. So that's where I got that from. It would be nice to think it'd be different in a higher-security situation, but I can't imagine those who work at the Asylum are very motivated to do a good job.**

 **I work in a restaurant and Ainsley is based on two servers I know. The one who left was always super happy and friendly, and the other one is based on a server who's quite happy to chat up the customers.**

 **I've always seen Edward as this slick ladies' man whom you know something's a bit off about but he's charismatic enough you can't bring yourself to care. You wouldn't want to date him, but a one-night stand would be a couple of hours' worth of entertaining shenanigans. He's young here so he doesn't have much of a reputation or baggage enough from supercriminality to make people wary enough to stay away. A lot of people for some reason think he can't get a woman, but canonically he's had at least a few, one of them the day he met her.**

 **The Catwoman's Revenge DLC for Arkham Knight tells us that the Riddler likes hot chocolate, which I like because I never agreed with the belief he would drink a lot of coffee.**


	10. Part the Tenth

Part the Tenth

A few days later, they started to plan.

On the days they couldn't risk going into the basement - the days there was many a witness - they would sit on the floor of the cell and Edward would draw it out with chalk. There wasn't a whole lot of planning involved, as Edward had done this many times already, but Jonathan would have him draw the relevant parts of the Asylum floor plan out so he could study them. As he did so Edward would watch his eyes behind the glasses. Sometimes they were eerie and sometimes they were beautiful, but they were always sharp with attentive intelligence.

"Is it really going to work," Jonathan asked, set brow indicating he thought otherwise. Edward bit back a sigh.

"Yes. It will."

"It just... feels too fictional. Pulling the fire alarm is one of those things that always works on paper but never does so in reality."

"It works. Trust me."

"I do, or I would have arranged to leave the moment I heard about this plan."

Edward looked up sharply. Jonathan was still inspecting the chalk outlines on the floor.

"You're very candid sometimes," Edward said finally.

"Not candid. Honest. I understand why this surprises you." He pointed to their planned exit on the map. "And this door will not be a problem."

"No," Edward answered. "During emergencies the main focus is tracking everyone down and sending them back into their cells. The finding consumes all the resources, particularly in the morning when some of the staff aren't quite awake yet. It's one of the doors nearest the parking lot, and the card lock is… disabled."

"How can you be sure of that?"

"I disabled it, of course," Edward said sweetly.

"You really need to be locked up someplace more secure," said Jonathan mildly. Edward frowned.

"I don't deserve to be in here. Let them put me somewhere else. I'll get out of there too."

Jonathan rubbed at his eyes. "You're here because this is a hospital for the criminally _insane_. It has nothing to do with how deserving you are."

"I am _not_ crazy!" Edward snapped, and he drove his hand into the floor so hard that the chalk broke into three pieces. Jonathan looked down at the dusty smear in a resigned sort of way.

"I don't really feel like getting into it right now."

"I'm not!" He brushed away the bits of chalk as best he could, irritated that he'd ruined his map. "I'm fine. I don't need to be here. It's like you said. I'm here because I want to be."

"I said I did not want to get into it."

"Then don't tell me I'm crazy!"

"I didn't." Jonathan's stare was level. "I said you were in a hospital for the insane. Now what does that tell you?"

Edward was rolling one of the bits of chalk between his fingers, back and forth and back and forth and –

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything."

He got up, scuffing the marks on the floor with his slippers as he went by, and climbed into bed. He didn't know if Jonathan would follow today. He didn't know if he wanted him to.

He did.

"I'm not crazy," Edward said after a few minutes. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to repeat it.

Yes he did. He didn't want Jonathan to think badly of him.

Jonathan only sighed.

"Brilliance and instability are not mutually exclusive. Your intelligence only provides method to your madness, so to speak; your obsessive needs to know and to solve only do you benefit. Not so much when you cannot control it, obviously, but that comes with the territory. The day you do wrangle it into submission you will be a formidable force indeed."

Would Jonathan, though? He'd been a psychiatrist, right? Edward had no desire to go in _that_ direction with their relationship, not at all. But Jonathan wouldn't think the less of him for his… quirks, would he? He would know. Edward couldn't resist them. It wasn't his fault.

"I'm not."

Jonathan put a hand on his arm. He restrained a shiver. God, was the man _dead_? It often seemed he was an apparition that only Edward knew about.

He didn't want to think about the implications of that, if it were true.

"We're both in here, aren't we?"

"Yes."

"And you think well of me regardless, hm?"

"Yeah."

"I am myself crazy, aren't I?"

"No."

Jonathan leaned up on one arm. His eyes were steady, and searching. Edward continued to stare at the opposite side of the room.

"You are willing to forget the faults of those you deem trustworthy. That explains a lot. But Edward," he continued, and he again put his hand on Edward's arm, a little more insistently. "What am I, then?"

"Powerful," Edward whispered. Jonathan sat upright.

"Powerful?"

"You have complete control over yourself."

"That's patently untrue and you know it. You've seen it."

Edward shook his head. "That doesn't count. You were surviving in the best way you know how."

"And that wasn't crazy."

"No!"

"All right, Edward," Jonathan said, and he lay back down again. "I won't argue about it. Know that we are in disagreement because you don't know what you're talking about."

Edward twisted to face him, insulted. "Yes I do!"

"Don't tell me you know who I am and that I do not," Jonathan said quietly. He was not being threatening in any way, but Edward still felt intimidated. Oh, but he had _such_ a command of his _voice_! "I assure you. I know myself far better than you do."

"You might, but you don't know what I see," Edward muttered, and in retrospect perhaps he shouldn't have said it at all. It sounded a lot more incendiary than he'd meant. But Jonathan only said,

"I'm telling you what you see is wrong."

Edward's laugh was bitter. "You can't tell me that! Sight is subjective, and it's neither true nor false while also being both. As a scientist and a scholar you should _know_ that."

A glance confirmed that Jonathan was thinking it over. He gave him another couple of moments, then said, "You can think my view of you stupid or naive. That's fine. It by no means makes you _right_."

"Perhaps it's less about that, and more about ensuring the shining allure doesn't fade once the sun moves out of your eyes."

That was an odd way to put it, but he got it. "I knew what it was when I picked it up, yes."

"You don't," Jonathan answered. "You really don't."

At the prearranged time, when they were both on opposite sides of the building and would by no means implicate the other even through their widely discussed mutual hatred - an erroneous view which he still found extremely humourous - he made his way quite casually to one of the three uncovered alarms on that floor and pulled it. Then he slipped down the hallway as discreetly as possible, making for the exit door nearest the parking lot. He would meet Jonathan there, pick the lock, and they'd take their leave. Easy. Some would say it was _too_ easy; he would merely say he'd taken a blatant opportunity.

Jonathan, as should have been expected, took his sweet time getting there; he was at least two minutes late. Edward frowned as he saw him approach the alcove. "What took you?" he hissed.

"I was busy trying to figure out which idiot pulled the fire alarm and disturbed my reading," Jonathan answered.

"You _forgot_?" Edward could not believe –

"It doesn't matter _now_ , does it? Let's get going, hm?"

Edward rolled his eyes and produced his lockpick, inserting it into the keyhole… at which time the rake snapped in his hand. He pulled it out and stared at it. This was _not_ happening.

"What?"

"My pick's broken. Give me yours."

"Mine?"

"The pick! That I gave you months ago!"

"Oh. I don't have that anymore. I traded it away a long time ago."

"Well then it looks like we're going nowhere."

"I think I may be of assistance," came a voice which Edward turned around in a panic in response to. It was Jervis… and he was pressing a pick into Jonathan's mostly attentionless hand.

"Why," Jonathan said softly. Jervis's eyes were clear as he met Jonathan's.

"In return for your help, my friend. I told you. I do not forget. I do not forget! Hurry along now! You mustn't tarry. You've plans to attend to!"

Jonathan handed Edward the pick rather absently, and he made short work of the lock, but when he was about to gesture Jonathan through the door Jonathan called, "Wait, Jervis."

Jervis scurried back the distance he'd moved and looked up at Jonathan, saying, "Yes?" in a curious sort of way. Jonathan produced a piece of straw, held between his long thumb and forefinger, and he carefully put it into Jervis's cupped hands.

"What is it?" Jervis asked in a hushed voice.

"Hm," Jonathan said, and his smile was a little… wistful. "It's a means to a story. One both great and terrible, that plays out only in the mind of each individual. It creates many, many tales all at the same time."

Jervis took a wondrous breath and made as if to snap it, but Jonathan put his hand overtop the eager fingers and said, "Not now. Not here. Over there, where all the vict… the players are. It will do you no good here. And Jervis."

"Yes?"

"Do not breathe too deeply yourself. The stories revealed by the straw can be… distressing."

"Oh, what a special, special thing," Jervis said in awe. "I shall savour it, I think, I shall keep it for a rainy poury day where the sun is not shining and needs such a gift to part the weeping clouds! Thank you, friends, and may you have the very best, the very best of luck in your endeavour!"

Jonathan curiously watched him more or less skip away. Finally he turned to Edward and said, "I can't decide if he's completely insane or brilliantly so."

"Both at any given time. Let's go."

Edward led Jonathan out the side of the building, crouching in the aesthetically pleasing and yet escape-aiding bushes that met the ivy climbing down the ancient brick walls. He only needed a moment to assess whether it was clear – it was – before continuing to lead Jonathan to the nearest vehicle, a dark grey coupe with a broken taillight. Edward took a knee to unlock the door before sliding into the driver's seat and hitting the lock on the passenger side. Jonathan somehow fit himself into the seat before sliding it backwards, asking, "And exactly _how_ are we going to – "

Edward had already hotwired the car and shoved the wires out of sight, looking into the backseat for something, anything to cover his Asylum clothes with. There was a cracked brown leather jacket and a tattered plaid blanket. He passed the blanket to Jonathan and pulled the jacket over himself. It was too big, of course, but he was pretending to be Asylum staff anyway. He didn't have a salary to speak of.

"Thank you, Edward, but I'm not cold." Jonathan started to put the blanket back into the rear of the car before Edward shot out an arm to stop him.

"It's to hide your clothes. No _wonder_ you didn't get very far on your own. Put it around your shoulders and keep your head down when we get to the gate. And take your glasses off. I don't know how many people know what you look like, but those are a dead giveaway."

"What about- "

Edward just smiled at him over the top of his custom glasses, which he had already changed the lenses on. They were now mere sunglasses to the casual eye.

"I should have just left with you the first time," Jonathan murmured, and Edward had to tighten his hands on the steering wheel to contain some odd happiness at hearing that.

"You should have. Now pretend you aren't here for a minute."

When they pulled up to the gate Edward rolled down the window and looked up at the guard, as casually as possible. "Hey," he said, in his best Polish-American accent – which _was_ pretty damn good – "we're just stepping out for lunch, eh? Be back in an hour or so."

"What, you don't like eating here?" the man above him said sarcastically. "You could take your lunch to the cafeteria with all the other loonies."

"How many times do I gotta tell ya?" Edward said, in a relaxed sort of way, "I ain't one of the inmates, I just work here!"

"There's a difference?"

"Can we go or what? Clock's ticking."

"Yeah sure," the guard told him, waving him on. "Try not to draw that lunch out too long, alright? Starting to hear from the big house some idiot pulled the fire alarm. They're going to want to help with the truth wrangling."

"Not my problem," Edward told him. "See ya when I see ya." He put the car into gear and drove through the gates towards the bridge. The traffic wasn't too bad, thankfully. He was itching to get rid of the car, though.

"Did you make that accent up?"

"No, it was Polish." He rubbed his forefinger between the arm of his glasses and his temple.

"How do you know?"

"Because I speak Polish." What a silly question.

Jonathan leaned forward in his seat. "Do you really."

Edward shrugged. "Well, you know, you're bored and you're at the library and you're out of computer time for the day, and you're looking around for something you don't know when you end up in the languages aisle. Languages are just puzzles, Jonathan. That, and a fair bit of memorisation. But I have both of those firmly in hand."

"You must speak quite a few then."

"Hasn't been very useful yet, though. I hear a lot of boring conversations about people's boyfriends but that's about it." He was going to move into the left turning lane off the bridge when Jonathan said,

"Right."

"Hm?"

"I have a place. Over… that way."

"Where is it?"

"I don't know how to get to it from here," Jonathan answered, shrugging off the blanket. "Just… from the university."

"Jon, we can't go there. Not if you lived there when – "

"I didn't," Jonathan interrupted. "Eddie, all of my research is there."

He sighed through his nose. He really would have preferred one of _his_ properties, but fine. Why not. He could go somewhere else if things went south anyway.

Jonathan somehow directed him there, using as few words as possible – mostly pointing, in fact, which was irritating and made it hard to drive straight – before they ended up at a ramshackle two-storey house in one of the less reputable parts of town. Edward sighed.

"Not up to your standards, I'm sure," Jonathan said in answer, "but all of my things are here and my rent is paid up for the next several months. I'm afraid I don't have any clothes that will fit you, though."

"I would not be caught dead wearing your clothes," Edward said in horror.

"I don't wear burlap _all_ the time."

"I don't wear jeans either."

Jonathan looked at him with incredulity scarcely hidden. "How did you know that?"

Edward walked around the car to join him, looking at him from under his eyebrows. "They're cheap."

"So are sweatpants."

"If I _ever_ catch you in those," Edward said, accented with a threatening finger, "I will _never_ associate with you again."

"Is _that_ all it takes? I shall acquire some posthaste. And – oh, not again."

Edward looked up to see Jonathan staring, annoyed, at five dark-haired kids sitting on the front porch of the house inspecting some object they'd found. He couldn't quite see what it was.

"They've been in my things _again_ ," Jonathan ground out. Edward finally caught a glimpse of the item and asked,

"Do you own a gun?"

"Yes."

Edward walked up to the boys, or tried to. Jonathan caught his arm.

"They're Hispanic. They don't speak English."

"We just went over this," Edward said in annoyance, freeing his arm. He climbed the stairs and took off his glasses, bending down a little. The boys looked up in sullen silence.

"I'm gonna need that back," he said to them in Spanish. One of the boys shook his head and answered, in perfect, accented English,

"He doesn't live there anymore. Everything downstairs is ours now."

"He does live there if his rent's paid up. That's the law, kid. Give me that. You're not old enough to handle it."

"It's _ours_ now – "

But Edward, adept as he was at sleight-of-hand, duked the kid out of the gun and pressed it into his jacket pocket, hoping the safety was on. And that it had one.

"Hey, that's not fair!"

"Now's a good time to start figuring out nothing's fair unless you make it be fair." He nodded to Jonathan. "Please tell me there's a back door."

Jonathan eyed the boys sourly before leading Edward around the back of the house, where there was indeed a door leading into the basement. It opened onto a foyer that was shortly halted by two flights of stairs, each leading in opposite directions. The upper set was shadowed by a closed door at the top of the landing.

Edward followed Jonathan down the stairs, grimacing in distaste. They were weak and noisy. And the floor was all cement and cold. The basement was unfinished, some of the wall present and the rest of it merely the wood framing, whispy yellow insulation slipping out of the containing plastic to trail along the cement foundation.

Jonathan had only a few pieces of furniture: a kitchen table and another sagging similar one in the middle of the room that was covered in lab equipment, each with an old chair that seemed to be from the same set. He also had a bed in the corner, if it could be called that; it seemed to be a mattress put on top of the frame for a pullaway couch. There were books stacked everywhere, seemingly placed randomly with disregard for their size, subject, or girth. Paper and writing instruments abounded, including many pencils with no leads in them. He didn't see any pencil sharpeners, or erasers for that matter. There was a kitchen alcove with sink, oven, and a small refrigerator as appliances, all of which were covered in more books and papers and dishes that didn't match in the slightest. There were about three cupboards attached to the wall, all of which were open and mostly empty where more books weren't stuffed into them. Edward bit his tongue at the thought of asking if there were books in the refrigerator as well. Overall Jonathan's space gave off the impression of being old and tired and… sad.

Edward already knew that Jonathan was two of those things. He'd yet to find out about the third.

"Far from your standards, I'm sure," Jonathan said, taking the gun back and putting it on the table, "but as I said. All of my things are here." He sat down on the bed, which was dressed with a crumpled sheet and what Edward thought was a seat cushion – come to think of it, it could have been - and appeared to sort through some pile of fabric at the end of it. That he had anything on the end of his bed confused Edward for a moment before he remembered Jonathan slept sitting up, out of necessity.

"Looks like a basement, all right," Edward said without enthusiasm. It was actually _worse_ than the basement in the Asylum, somehow.

Jonathan stood up, his costume pants fastened by way of a length of rope around his waist. He was barefoot and his tshirt almost seemed to envelop him. It was probably very difficult for him to find clothes that fit without going to a place that specialised in them, not that Edward had ever seen such a place. His brows were set. "If it displeases you so much I'm sure you have someplace else to go," he said, somewhat coldly. Edward found himself swallowing against some tension in his stomach. They had been gone for all of thirty minutes and they were already fighting.

"I… I'll get used to it."

"Don't put yourself out on my account."

"I'll be back in a bit," Edward said, hoping the bathroom upstairs was in better repair than this. "I'm going to need some things."

"Take your time."

Edward reached the doorway and hesitated inside of it, hand against the jamb. "Look, Jon, I didn't mean to be -"

"Yes, you did."

"Okay, maybe a little." And here he waved his hand. "I just don't understand how you can work in all of this mess!"

Jonathan looked around the room, seemingly as though he never had before. "I suppose it is a little... cluttered."

"Do you even have the time to read all those books?"

"The books are off-limits, Edward."

"But you read so slowly and - "

"I said they were off-limits."

"The coffee cups aren't?" There were about ten of them strewn across the lab table. They all seemed to have been stolen from the university. Edward imagined Jonathan absently drinking out of one of them while carrying a stack of books and reading one both as he walked out of the building. It humanised him a little.

"Edward," Jonathan said wearily, "you've had this wrinkle in your nose ever since you pulled up here. If you hate it that much, go. I don't have the patience to hear this too much longer."

Did he _really_ have a wrinkle in his nose? He _knew_ the Asylum air was starting to age him prematurely! "Don't you... it just looks so _sad_ , Jonathan. Like someone's garage. If I had been a successful university professor I -"

Jonathan's laugh was bitter and disbelieving. "No one is a successful university professor, Edward. Especially by your measures of success, those being fame and fortune. Neither of which I have nor value."

Edward stuffed his hands into the pockets of his stolen jacket. The left one had a hole through which his finger could touch the lining.

"You got there," he said, somewhat lamely he realised after he'd started saying it. "I'd say that was a success."

"It wasn't."

"I just think you could do better. That's all. Think it over." And he left before he really did start a fight.

When Edward had finally settled down after leaving his father's house, the first thing he'd done with his recently leased apartment was wash it down thoroughly, so he could pretend it was newly made just for him. It wasn't, and was a bit below his standards in an area he didn't really like. But he was broke from travelling down half the country, and he was also pretty good at pretending.

After that he had stood in the middle of it, and looked at the sun that seemed to have come out just for him through his freshly cleaned windows, and he'd planned it out. It was all right there in his head, the things he'd always wanted to build: a solid desk, a chest of drawers with a _mirror_ on it, a modern bed of dark stained wood with drawers in it, the computer he'd been dreaming of and refining since he was twelve... he wouldn't be able to do it just then, but he would. He would.

That had been the goal, anyway.

The reality had been that he simply could not afford the lifestyle he deserved, not yet; he'd had to settle for particleboard furniture and a computer made of the most decent parts he could find on forums of hardware for sale. And he never had gotten his mirror. He was still going to do it, though the day had been pushed farther back than he could see. He had the resources now, but the privacy... that, he didn't have. For now, his property had to do with fulfilling that itch to realise so many of the more… unconventional things he'd been building in his mind ever since he could remember. Some of those earlier things he remembered with a sort of fond embarrassment, like the pen with a pencil on the other side; he had no real idea why he'd ever thought that useful. The things he was building now, though, were magnificently beautiful. He could not wait to show them to the Detective! but alas, they were a great deal of work and most of them weren't finished yet. He only actually had the deed to one location currently, and hadn't decided yet where to put the rest.

Many people were of the opinion that Edward was taking far too long to enact any plans and was therefore not a threat to the Bat at all; all of them were wrong. He was indeed taking his time, but because the plan needed to be perfect. It had to be complex, but have an easy answer; it had to be beautiful, and yet reveal the ugliness of the target; it had to be something only he would come up with, and yet would not reveal him as the master until the time was right. A scheme of such elegance and finesse took time, in the way that trying to copyright ocean creatures and knocking over second national banks on the second of February did not have. He would show them. He would. When he was ready. And he would win, too, he would take ultimate victory from them, and he wouldn't even gloat about it because that would be tasteless. Well, maybe a little. Just so they knew how utterly he'd bested them. Some small endeavour, perhaps an all-channel broadcast played hourly for a day or so, would take care of that.

The one property he did have was about twenty minutes' walk from Jonathan's basement, and by the time he'd thought all of that he had reached it. He unlocked the door and walked inside. It was just how he'd left it. Other than the somewhat desiccated racoon corpse on the floor beneath a gap in the ceiling he'd been meaning to fix. It had hit one of the floor panels and been summarily electrocuted. He frowned a little in distaste and looked around for his cane. He'd have to remove that first.

After he'd manoeuvred it into a garbage bag and promptly thrown it into the street to be dealt with by someone else, he continued his true endeavour: moving in with Jonathan. He could stay here, obviously, but he found himself not wanting to even though his property wasn't cold or dark or dingy. Plain fact was, he had never lived with anyone before. Close to, but not quite. That one girl had turned out to be a tad free with leaving her belongings all over the place. He was sure he had yet to find her lipstick in his underwear or the like. She had also constantly been stealing his mascara, claiming he didn't need it because his lashes were _already_ better than hers, which was patently false. When he protested she would then ask why he was wearing it anyway, to which the obvious answer - or the one he thought was obvious, anyway - was 'because I want to', which honestly should not have been required in the first place. Extreme lengthening and bold definition were natural attributes even he didn't have.

He had a sort of makeshift closet for his clothes here - the rest of this things were in stashes located in various places around the city - and he reminded himself of which ones were there by flicking through them rapidly. Only one set he had actually worn before. He was going to have to bring about three and leave the other two. He preferred to keep the sets together, as that was when they were at their most coordinated, but they could all generally be mixed together without looking out of place.

He folded them gently into his suitcase and went to gather his other personal items. He needed to have a shower and he was going to have one at the YMCA instead of back at Jonathan's. He wanted to go back there entirely fresh and new, and he also wanted to get rid of his Asylum clothes far from where he actually lived. The Y wasn't _that_ far, but it might make those searching believe he was staying there and it would mislead them for a while.

Once there, he took as long of a shower as he could, which was until the tepid water felt too much like cold. He had a pair of swimming shorts he used expressly for this purpose. He rarely actually used them for swimming in, not because he didn't like swimming - it was a generally non-strenuous exercise, so he really should have done it more often - but because he didn't have the time. Ah, that was what everyone said! but it was true. Being a criminal mastermind was time consuming.

After he was clean and dressed he felt a great deal better. He had to do it quickly, because he didn't want any suspicious busybodies to call attention to him, but he was even able to shave with his own razor. Oh, that felt good. It was much more clean and satisfying than the result left by the Asylum's dull plastic razors.

He was very hungry after all of this so he went to the café inside of the facility and had a chicken salad. He wasn't too concerned about being recognised right now; not a lot of people walked around dressed like he did, but as long as he had on nothing adorned with question marks he was generally in the clear. He didn't expect the people of Gotham to be able to recognise him from a blurry, sullen, greyscale mugshot in the back of the newspaper anyway. They were far too stupid to do that.

It was dusk when he stepped outside, feeling entirely like himself again. He walked back to Jonathan's basement cheerfully, now more confident this was going to be fine. If he were really honest about it - and the fact that he was going to be was significant - it had been his own fault things had started to go sideways. He had been rude, walking into Jonathan's home and passing judgement on it like that. He was right, but that didn't give him the right. He would work on it.

He walked into the basement and his resolve dampened a little. He really did not want to live there. But he liked Jonathan enough to suffer through it anyway.

That was both interesting and alarming.

"I'm back!" he announced, and he brought the suitcase to the end of the bed where Jonathan probably was not going to trip over it. Or himself, for that matter. When he turned around Jonathan was staring at him.

"Yeah?"

Jonathan blinked a few times and looked down at the papers he'd been flipping through when Edward arrived. "I... didn't recognise you for a minute. You look very different."

Edward walked closer to the table. "You've never seen me in the paper or on the news?"

Jonathan shook his head. "I don't pay mind to any of that." He was taking small glances of Edward, as though he couldn't help look but didn't want to be caught doing so. "Do you always wear your costume, then?"

"This isn't a _costume_ ," Edward said indignantly. "These are my _clothes_." He invited himself onto the corner of Jonathan's table and looked idly at the paper nearest. It was some assorted chemical scribbles and a drawing he couldn't make out, because Jonathan was a terrible artist. Even sitting on the table, he still only matched the man's height.

"They look very expensive," Jonathan said, in mostly a conversational way. "Can I touch them?"

That wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever been asked. "Sure."

Jonathan put out his hand to do so, but didn't.

"What?"

"I feel as though I'm going to damage it if I touch it," Jonathan answered. "It's not meant for hands like mine."

"You won't," Edward said. "Even if you did, I'd just go and get a new suit if I really was bothered about it."

Jonathan's hand firm around his arm inspired some joy in his stomach. He liked it there. He wanted it to stay there.

"You just... constantly buy new clothes?"

Edward shrugged. "I don't wear them that many times, honestly. I get bored of them or have another idea I want to see in action."

Jonathan let go. "I don't think I've ever owned anything new in my life."

Edward believed him whole-heartedly. "I have money and I like spending it on things."

"You..." He studied his papers. "You look nice. But... doll-like. As though no one is supposed to touch you."

"No one _is_ supposed to touch me," Edward said, and he was aware of himself sitting a little straighter without meaning to. Jonathan smiled, just a little.

"Good."

"Maybe you can," Edward said, leaning forward and lowering his voice a little, "if you're nice to me."

Jonathan's amusement held. "How nice must I be, hm?"

"You'll know when you get there," Edward answered, and he absconded from the table. He had work to do.

He reclined on the bed and pulled his laptop out of his suitcase. He had a lot of news to catch up on. He braced the machine on his knees and wrapped two ropes of black liquorice around his wrist. The good stuff, not the cheap kind he had to make do with when he was in the Asylum.

As he worked he could feel Jonathan's eyes on him, and his mind clicked away in the background about what this meant. Most likely Jonathan had never had someone in his home before, much less someone as attractive and well-dressed as Edward was. Edward was quite aware he cleaned up very well and he took full advantage of this when he could. He didn't mean to do so with Jonathan, however. And not solely because he liked the man, either; part of it was that taking advantage of him put him at risk of incurring Jonathan's wrath, which Edward wanted no part of.

He got up once to put his pyjamas on and make himself tea – and that was _also_ quite a treat, after being without for months – and he was tired but he still had to make sure all of his finances were in order. He could keep track of it easily without the computer, of course, but looking at the numbers and knowing they were as they should be was reassuring. He had several different accounts at multiple financial institutions under as many pseudonyms, all of them set up for different purposes. One was for his most trusted informants, another for the employees below those; a third was for informants on their way out or in the process of proving themselves. The rest were mostly for expenses of any sort and there was one he used strictly for savings, but that was one of his foreign accounts and he did not touch that. It was his nest egg. In twenty or thirty years, when he was ready to retire, he would have plenty to do so with.

Once he was finished he stretched and yawned, afterward putting the laptop to sleep and returning it to his suitcase. He now had a sort of warm contentment courtesy of the tea, and he wasn't sure if he was going to sleep just yet but he was certainly going to lie back and enjoy it. Jonathan's bed wasn't the most comfortable but it was somehow moreso than the Asylum's.

"Is everything you own green?" Jonathan asked, no doubt having taken note of his laptop's case. And his suitcase. And his pants. Edward folded his hands behind his head and looked over at Jonathan, who was still sitting at the table.

"I have some things that are purple."

Jonathan got up and crossed the room. "You don't get tired of the same colour all the time?"

"It's not the same colour all the time. There are infinite shades of green."

Jonathan laughed. "There are not."

"There are!" Edward sat up, he was so insulted. "The human eye isn't calibrated to perceive the entire spectrum of colour, that's all. There are infinite hues, saturations, and values to each and every colour. Your not being able to see them doesn't mean they aren't there."

"And I suppose you have the ability to distinguish between more of these shades than most." Jonathan was obviously amused and was just saying that to annoy him. Most infuriatingly, it worked. He lay back down, crossing his arms.

"Of course."

Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed, and Edward was surprised at the tenderness with which he brushed the stray hair back from his forehead. His touch was rough, but not entirely repulsive. "You have been quite distracting," he murmured. "You truly are a sight when you have on your own clothes."

Edward couldn't be offended by that no matter how hard he tried. "Aren't I?"

Jonathan looked back at the table. "Your arrogance is at once annoying and endearing, and I have yet to understand why."

"Not arrogance. A willingness to honestly assess my self-worth."

Jonathan laughed.

"Why are you laughing?"

"You really do remind me of a spoiled little prince."

"If I'm the prince, what does that make you?"

"The frog," Jonathan said, without hesitation, and Edward laughed at his candour. Oh, he appreciated Jonathan's honesty about himself. People who postured about attributes they did not have in any capacity were tiresome. "What you see is what you get, I'm afraid," Jonathan continued. "A kiss from you will lift no curse."

"You can try it anyway," Edward said, delighted he'd been given such an opening. "You know… just in case."

When Jonathan kissed him then it was soft, but insistent. Edward forced the apprehension building in his stomach back down. They were finally alone, away from any potential prying eyes, and he was going to let Jonathan do as he liked. If Edward became afraid he was going to ignore it, and remind himself that it was not Jonathan he feared. Jonathan was safety. Jonathan protected him. Jonathan _cared_ , and Edward needed to stop returning that care with reactions he didn't deserve.

Jonathan's hand was beneath his shirt, caressing his back. His other hand gripped Edward's shoulder with force and his mouth against Edward's was urgent.

Edward pushed him back, and there was a moment in between that and the time it took Edward to pull his shirt over his head that he saw the hurt on Jonathan's face. Jonathan had no need to worry. All Edward wanted was to give Jonathan the freedom to keep right on doing what he'd started. His throat had tightened a little, but he could handle it. Jonathan wouldn't hurt him.

Jonathan's answer was to bring Edward into his body, massaging the back of his neck with those long fingers. Jonathan's shoulders were hard and unyielding beneath his hands, and that was exactly how he wanted it. Perhaps one day he would feel the need to soften this man, but for now he would let Jonathan do so to him instead.

Jonathan forced him onto his back, pressing his lips into Edward's neck just beneath his jaw, and Edward moaned. He had to consciously refocus his eyes. God, that had felt _so good_ , better than anything had in such a long time. Jonathan was kissing his neck, his jaw, his mouth, kneeling overtop of him, one hand pressing Edward's shoulder to the bed. The rough urgency of it further tightened Edward's throat. Would he stop if Edward – but no, he didn't need to think about that. He didn't _want_ Jonathan to stop. He wanted Jonathan's laboured breathing above him, wanted Jonathan's hand to move from his chest to his stomach to his thighs…

Edward had at some point bent his legs around Jonathan's. He didn't remember doing it – maybe Jonathan had – but if he could have wrapped himself around Jonathan more he would have. Jonathan was actually sweating now, sideburns dark and his neck damp. He'd done that. _Edward_ had done that. He'd waited too long to do it at all, should have let Jonathan press him into the bed and kiss him as though he must and _touch_ him, God, when was the last time he'd been _touched_ like this? Never, he never had been. Never before like this.

Jonathan's other hand, the one that wasn't pinning his shoulder, was wrapped around the left side of his butt, his thumb pressing into Edward's thigh. Edward couldn't breathe all of a sudden. He turned his face away and bit at the inside of his lip, trying to catch his breath. There was an unbearable heat between his legs. "Jon," he managed between shortened breaths, "Jonathan."

Jonathan pressed a kiss to his jaw and squeezed a little harder on his buttock, the thumb moving to explore the strangely pleasant throbbing inside of his legs. He was completely ready for what came next –

But it didn't. He opened his eyes to see Jonathan staring uneasily at the wall, the hand he wasn't using to help him kneel clenched in front of him.

"What," Edward asked, annoyed. He hated being riled up and then let down.

"I… I can't." Jonathan wouldn't look at him. "We have to stop."

Edward was about to snap about being led on when he remembered that was rude. God, this was the worst timing he'd ever seen! He was still _wearing his pants,_ for God's sake! The need wasn't just going to _go away_. He grimaced and sat up.

"Can I ask _why_?" He was unable to banish the irritation from his voice.

"I… didn't mean to go that far."

Sitting had made it worse. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep his legs still. "What exactly did you _think_ was going to happen?"

"I wasn't thinking about it."

He sighed heavily through his nose, but didn't say anything more about it. He just told Jonathan he would be back and took care of it himself. He was annoyed as all hell, obviously – he _hated_ when this sort of thing happened – but he had to remind himself that Jonathan really _didn't_ know anything. Jonathan had never had the opportunity to do anything like this before, partially because this was the first time Edward had let him. It was inconvenient, and irritating. But making any more of a fuss about it would only be detrimental, and Edward was of the mind to make all of this work. Moreso than he had before with anyone. It was strange, and a little frightening to be honest. That was Jonathan in a nutshell, though, wasn't it?

He wasn't long – Edward was of no mind to be patient - and when he returned to bed Jonathan lay down beside him, pulling Edward into his chest. Edward curled himself into the hollow of Jonathan's body, craving the protection of Jonathan's will. Jonathan helped him move closer, wrapping both Edward's legs in one of his own and taking the back of his head in one hand. He smelled of sweat and chemicals and straw. His body was still as cool as ever, though the edges of his face were damp. The only place in the world Edward wanted to be just then was right there, wrapped inside of Jonathan.

He'd never done this before. It was… nice. It made him a little sad, and he didn't like that he didn't know why.

"Edward," Jonathan whispered into his ear. "I - "

"It's fine," Edward interrupted. "It's not the first time."

"All right," Jonathan said. His hand slowly moving through Edward's hair was actually just as nice anyway. So was the fact that he was pressing Edward into him as much as was possible. If they could have molded themselves into one person for the night, Edward would happily have done so. "I was surprised you were so understanding."

Now he just felt bad. "I only did what you did for me."

"I see," Jonathan murmured, and he pressed his forehead into Edward's. The coarse strands of his hair bristled against his skin, but it felt nice. And something that felt even nicer was to know just how _much_ they understood each other. Just how _similar_ they were, and yet _different_ enough to learn from the other. Jonathan was comforting, and understanding, and even though this was doubtless going to be followed up by something terrible, because that was how his life worked, that was fine. But right now Jonathan's cool skin was pressed to his in a way he'd dreamed of since… forever. So wonderfully, preciously close. Why was he sad? It was a _good_ kind of sad, sort of, but why? It didn't make any sense. Everything was fine. Moreso than he could remember in a long, long time.

Edward had never thought he could feel so safe with a man.

 **Author's note**

 **Nope, we're not going there.**


	11. Part the Eleventh

Part the Eleventh

When Edward opened his eyes the next morning, he felt good. He also forgot where he was for a long handful of seconds, until he figured out that Jonathan was still there. He had ended up on top of the thin chest as usual, and one of Jonathan's hands was carelessly across his shoulders. He was looking up at the ceiling, in seemingly a much different mood than Edward was. As though he were resigning himself to something.

"You must have woken hours ago," Edward said, yawning and rolling onto his back. Mm, it felt _good_ to wake up when he wanted to…

"I did."

"Why are you still here, then?" He must have been incredibly bored. Edward would have been.

"I have my reasons." And with that he got out of bed.

Edward frowned – he had asked because he _wanted_ the reasons, not to hear his own voice. Though that was a great motivator in and of itself.

He decided going back to sleep would be far more fun than wrangling things out of Jonathan.

Jonathan's demeanour began to shift during the next few days, however; he became less himself and more Scarecrow, obsessively refining his plans over and over again and devoting his time to his research above all else. Or maybe _this_ was Jonathan, and the man Edward had come to know in the Asylum was someone else as yet unnamed. Edward didn't fault him for his behaviour. He understood it; he'd been there too. But that was part of the problem: he _had_ been there, he _did_ know some of what Jonathan was thinking, and knowing that and seeing it as an outside party was making him realise that it was so incredibly destructive. Not only destructive, but downright _sad_. Jonathan stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped _everything_ for the sake of his experiments, and while Edward did admire his startling ability to operate on pure unadulterated passion... he didn't know if anything could possibly be worth losing yourself to it so completely.

More than once Edward came back from his own errands to find Jonathan collapsed on the floor, and it was impossible to tell if he were unconscious or asleep. Edward would hope for the latter and bring him the blanket and pillow from the bed, because he couldn't lift him onto it. Jonathan would remain motionless for so long that Edward would have to reassure himself that he was still breathing. But the worst part of it all was that Jonathan would wake up and immediately resume what he had been doing. The third time this happened Edward sat on the table next to where he stood and said, "We need to talk."

"I'm busy, Edward," Jonathan snapped.

"That's what we need to talk about," Edward told him. "And I'm not looking for attention, though I have to admit it would be nice to get some. But no, this is about you. You're killing yourself here, Jonathan. You can't keep going like this. You - "

"Do not lecture me," Jonathan said, his voice hard and low, and when he turned to face Edward he felt as though he were towering ever taller. The illusory blue glow of his eyes seemed to flare as he sank his injector gauntlet into Edward's neck.

It took three days of nightmares before Edward was able to wake up.

He was curled into the corner of the bed, shaking, confused, trying to figure out how his father had known about all of the things he had berated him for, wondering if he was going to be killed this time with a final swing of one bunched fist. He was trying to connect the realisation that it had been worse than ever with the fact that he was in no pain, save for a savage headache and an aching hollowness in his stomach, and failing. Something was missing in his head. The last thing he remembered before his father had appeared was -

Edward turned his head and there he was, sitting at the foot of the bed, hunched over with his fingers threaded together. Edward's searching hand somehow managed to capture the glasses on the bedside table and slide them onto his face, but Jonathan didn't move. Edward realised he was in his underclothes and had a passing thought that he hoped Jonathan had put his suit somewhere nicely and not left it in a corner to wrinkle.

"Can we not do that again," Edward choked out, and he wasn't sure exactly what had gone on while he'd been unconventionally intoxicated but he was now aware of how incredibly thirsty he was.

"Edward," Jonathan said, his voice breaking a little. "I'm so sorry."

Edward sat up, wincing. Everything ached, from his arms to his chest. His hair almost seemed to hurt. "Do you understand now that we need to talk?

Jonathan nodded. Before he could say more, Jonathan told him everything.

Jonathan had been born in the south, to a mother who abandoned him at birth in a boarding house and a father he knew nothing about. Parentless, awkward, and sickly, he had undergone a childhood populated with bullying and loneliness. When he was old enough to more or less care for himself his surrogate mother turned her attentions back to her business and left Jonathan to fend alone. One afternoon, in an attempt to escape the taunting of the children with parents who belonged there when he so clearly didn't, Jonathan ran into a cornfield and hid among the stalks. It was comforting at first: there was something beautiful about the way the sun shone on the top of the corn. The corn stalks were tall and ungainly and haphazard like he was, and he felt that, perhaps, that was supposed to mean something. But as he wandered through the harsh greenery he realised he had no idea where he was, or how to get out.

Panic built in his chest and he started to run. He didn't know if the direction was right, if he was getting out or moving deeper in, but he was too frightened to care. He ran blindly as fast as he could, breaking through the brush with a strength he'd never had before, and when he hit something and was thrown to the ground it took him a second to register what had happened. When he looked up to attempt to orient himself, to figure out what he had run into, all he could see was an impossibly huge figure blotting out the sun.

When they pulled the collapsed scarecrow off of him a great deal of time later, he was still screaming.

He got no sympathy for what had happened. There were people who passed through the boarding house who never even knew what his name was, because everyone took to calling him Scarecrow. Even the adults started doing it, which they would explain away with a shrug and, "Well, he sure _look_ the part, don't he?"

Jonathan began to feel as though the world was closing in on him.

There was no future for him, not there. He was far too frail to ever work a field like the hale and hearty men who would sit on the boarding house porch and smoke and laugh and drink moonshine like it was water. He was too shy and anxious to take over the boarding house, or even help someone else run it. He needed to get out of there, he needed options and the ability to start over, and the only way to do that was to throw everything he had into his education.

It was not at all easy. School was just as bad as home, except kids from all over the county had the opportunity to make fun of him at every turn, and the teachers who didn't call him Scarecrow would always speak of 'little Jonny' and then laugh, as if he had not understood the joke the first thousand times he'd heard it.

And so Jonathan had had to learn, in a way, to close off himself and become someone else. To become the Scarecrow that everyone already insisted he was.

The boarding house was noisy and filled with people always coming and going and mistaking his room for theirs, and through it all Jonathan spent night after night at his desk, developing a laser focus on his studies even as people revelled drunkenly on his bed. He halted contact with other people entirely and downright ignored any attempts at communication. He didn't care what they had to say. They were irrelevant, and they were born and they would live and they would die in this backwater Georgian hellhole, but he was leaving. His books were all that mattered. And his books gave back the attention he poured into them. They didn't care about his stutter or what he looked like. All they wanted was to share their contents with him. All they wanted was to educate him, so he could escape.

In the summers, when school was over, he did not stop studying. He would do as many small chores for his surrogate as he could and then use the money she gave him to take the bus that ran twice a day into the city, and he would spend all of his time in the library there. He had already decided that he wanted to become a university professor, of psychology. He would never need to give up his now full-blown need to learn something, and he would educate. He would show other people how to escape. And he would help them to do so, as he had not been helped.

He got along with nobody, failed every group project for refusing to collaborate with his peers, and all of his oral presentations were recited in such a way that he was evaluated as 'dead-eyed' and 'creepy'. On some level he was aware of the fact that he had lost himself in the obsessive need to leave his hometown, and sometimes he would wake from gripping nightmares of his youth and realise he knew nothing but books anymore. What was he going to do when he had to return to himself again? But he would put on his glasses and glance over to his desk, and there the books would be, and it was crazy but he almost felt as though they spoke to him now. That they whispered of the enticing and beautiful knowledge they held, and how everything would be fine if he just kept turning the page. The only divergence from the studying was the time he spent desperately ridding himself of his accent. Everyone around him laughed and chided and ridiculed him for thinking he was better than them, but he was. He was, and he was leaving, and he was not going to take any piece of this life with him when he left. He would never, ever associate with this damn town ever again, and good riddance. This couldn't be all there was for him. It couldn't be. He was obviously not supposed to be here, but where _was_ he meant to be? And _who_?

When he discovered the magic of chemistry the obsession only intensified because, unlike psychology, chemistry had concrete answers that were just out of his reach. He had immense difficulty with the subject at first, to the point where his teacher wanted to force him to drop the class. But Jonathan was not about to do that. Jonathan knew better, and Jonathan knew that he just had to keep working and the answers and the solutions would present themselves. And he struggled with the subject all year, but he refused to let it go. The rewards from working it through properly were too great.

It was halfway through his graduating semester when the chemistry finally made absolute sense in his mind, and not only did he turn in perfect assignments for the remainder of the year, but he dug out all of his old chemistry work and redid it. He was appalled at his lack of understanding just a year before. He wasn't working hard enough. He had to push himself farther.

Despite his early lack of understanding in chemistry and his terrible marks on any assignment where he had to do things other than write down information, Jonathan's grades were good enough to get a significant scholarship. As soon as he was allowed to move into residence at Gotham State University, he left Georgia and only returned to poison that cornfield with his very first toxin, a few years later. And university allowed him to fuel his obsession with books and, increasingly, fear to a height he had not imagined. He poured himself into receiving his doctorate and, though his relationship with his professor was best described as 'strained', he succeeded and was given the position he had been working towards his whole life. He developed his thesis into a groundbreaking book, _The Psychology of Fear_ , and was given permission to build a brand-new course around the material. And it seemed that was the end of the road. Once he was there, it should have been easy from there on in. But it wasn't.

"At this point," Jonathan said, hopelessly, "I have no idea who Jonathan… who I'm even supposed to be anymore. You were right, and you've always _been_ right. I tried to become myself again once I achieved all of my goals. I was safe. I had started over. But I could not educate them! They refused to listen, refused to _learn_!" The hands that had been covering his face formed hard fists in his lap. "They would go to the dean and tell him that I was cruel, that my exams and my assignments were too difficult, that I marked correct answers as being wrong! I did no such thing! All they wanted was a powerpoint with a few key facts on it so they could write it on the inside of their cellphone cases to cheat off of while they wrote the exams. Any time I tried to push them they pushed back. They didn't want me to educate them. They wanted me to leave them to their frat parties and their sorority rushes and their football games and for me to give them the bare minimum of work to do to pass the course. And God, it was one book! _One book_ , I asked them to read _one damn book_! Do you even _understand_ how many _hundreds_ of books I had to read to get through university? It was one book. It's two hundred and thirty-seven pages. It's not all text, it has diagrams, I was a student once, _I know how boring textbooks are_! But they wouldn't read it. They complained that I wrote on the chalkboard instead of using a projector. They complained about how I spoke to them. And they would _lie_ , Edward, they would _lie_ that I had not offered to help them! I did! And all the students that were failing sent tear-filled emails back home to their parents, who sent _me_ emails demanding how I could treat their precious spawn that way when they were paying my salary, but not _one_ of them ever came to my clearly posted office hours! Not one! And it was _still_ my fault when they failed the course. They didn't _want_ to pass the course, and they made that very clear, and it was _my fault_ for not passing them!"

He was covering his face again.

"I don't know how it happened; to this day I don't know why I did it. I had a gun on me. I always used to have one; that's just something people do in the south and I thought nothing of it. And I was attempting to lecture, and they were fiddling with their phones and laptops and not listening. I was exhausted and frustrated, and when _he_ said he could not take me seriously because I looked like a scarecrow… I snapped." He shook his head. "I had spent almost twenty years to get where I was. Twenty years of nonstop study and work, and that _moron_ and probably half of the other idiots in there decided I was not worth their time due to my appearance. He was in front. I put the gun to his head and asked him if he was going to take me seriously now. He was afraid then. Oh, he was afraid. It was one of the first times the Scarecrow whispered in my ear; he told me to do it. To go ahead with it, because he dared disrespect me when I was being good enough to attempt to educate his ungrateful ass. He told me I had more power than I dared to allow myself to realise, and I knew he was right… but I did not want to kill the boy. I just wanted to scare him into listening, because that was the only thing that would _work_. And it did work. They all listened after that, because they were afraid. And it felt… right.

"But they fired me. Charges were not pressed, which was the only bit of good fortune, but what to do then? I'd been at the university for a decade. I had worked towards the university my entire life and now I'd been removed from it. I could not go to another university then, not so soon. I didn't know what to do. I thought perhaps psychiatry was the answer. But it was no better. I seemed to be getting the worst patients in the entire city. Things would be working out fine, they would get better, and then they would miss their session. I would call and they would not answer. They would leave me a message three days later, saying, 'Oh Dr Crane, sorry I missed your call, I don't think I'll be needing to see you anymore because I feel much better. I'm no longer taking my medication, I think I'm cured.' There is no cured!" Jonathan shouted, fingers twisting into claws. "There is no goddamn cure for these things! You have to _work_ for it for the rest of your life! And I would tell them and they _would not listen_ , and then, of course, and _then_ I would receive several urgent messages while I was at home, working on my research, people crying that they felt terrible and they needed me to help them and it was urgent and would I _please_ pick up the phone, but I wouldn't. Because I would help them and they would do it all over again. And _that_ ," he emphasised with a skyward finger, "was when I decided to do all of this. They won't learn unless you force them to. They won't learn what they need to do, what they need to _know_ , unless you _force_ them. And the best way to do that is through fear. Fear is what drove me out of a life I would otherwise have been buried in. Essential decisions are only made because of unbearable terror. I will _make_ them understand, because they are not willing to do it on their own. I tried to show them through normal channels, but they are not willing to learn. I will find the perfect formula , and they will learn or pay the price. As insane as it sounds, listening to the Scarecrow's advice has brought me the only true results I have ever had, both in my attempts to educate and to further my research. So I never stopped."

Edward had to admit – only to himself, because Jonathan clearly had some measure of insanity lurking in his brain and Edward didn't like the implication that understanding meant _he_ was unstable – that it all did make some sort of sense. What _was_ a man to do, when he desperately wanted to educate and yet the people sent to him refused to be educated?

"And then there was you," Jonathan said quietly, and his hands were in his lap again, threaded together. "You didn't dismiss me for my appearance. Never once have you called me Scarecrow, and when I told you not to call me Jonny you didn't. I didn't need the Scarecrow when I was in the Asylum, because you listened _without_ being forced to. Still he whispers about you, but I have no need to heed him. Your need for knowledge outstrips mine to the point where you _must_ know everything or you become greatly stressed. And you are smart about gathering the knowledge; you put all of the pieces in place so that people gather it for you and you can peruse it at your leisure. At first I was disgusted with your methods. At how _lazy_ you were for doing it the way you do. But the depths of planning, manipulation, _intelligence_ … it's actually _incredibly_ brilliant."

"I do make it look incredibly easy, don't I," Edward mused.

"You do," Jonathan agreed. "Enough so that I really did think you were the laziest man I'd ever met. Until I realised that perhaps we were more alike in our methodology than I had anticipated. Plans silently and meticulously made, until the time to strike is undeniable."

"Exactly," Edward said. "It's a bit… disheartening, to have to pretend to be lesser and inactive than one really is, but it's safer. And smarter. Infinitely smarter."

Jonathan returned to his chemicals after, though it largely seemed to be force of habit and not because he felt any pressing need to. Edward attended to his own blueprints and they worked in silence a long time, broken mostly by gently clinking glass. After a while Jonathan's stomach began to growl insistently. Edward looked up then and watched him. He honestly didn't seem to notice. There was something about his eyes that told Edward he wasn't really there, just then. His eyes were focused on what he was doing, and only what he was doing. The laser focus he had described developing when he was young, where he was attentive only to what was directly in front of him and nothing else.

But that wasn't all, was it. No one had ever taken care of Jonathan, been attentive to his needs. Jonathan had unlearned to take care of _himself_ and had instead replaced those instincts with the belief that if he threw himself into that one important thing, everything else would fall into place eventually. And that had worked, for a while. Edward wasn't sure it would work anymore. It didn't seem to have worked after he'd graduated from the university. At this point, Jonathan wasn't doing things because they worked; he was doing things because they were all he knew. All he knew how to be.

Perhaps it was time again for the teacher to be taught.

Edward was gone for an hour but Jonathan didn't even seem to notice he'd left; he didn't look up, didn't blink when Edward tripped down the stairs. The tremors in his hands were pronounced. Edward couldn't help but sigh a little. How could he stand there and passively hurt himself without noticing? He put the pizza down on one of the cleaner tables and said, "Jonathan."

He had to repeat himself several times before Jonathan looked up. "What," he said, sounding startled.

"It's time to eat, Jon. Come here."

"I just have to – "

"No. Now."

With reluctance Jonathan listened, sitting down at the table with Edward. And he _ate_ , moreso than Edward had ever seen before. Edward wasn't partial to cheese himself – he'd only gotten it because he knew Jonathan preferred plain foods – so he didn't partake as much. Mostly he was just glad Jonathan would eat if he made it as easy as possible. And _that_ was an interesting thought. He'd never really… done anything like that before. Never _cared_ about anyone before. He'd never really had a reason to – it was generally a thankless undertaking that came back to bite you sooner or later – but now that he did… he might have to try it more often. Discreetly, of course. He had a reputation to think of.

Jonathan stood and got himself a glass of water after he'd finished eating, and stood at the sink for so long Edward wondered if something had gone wrong over there. Jonathan shook his head when he asked.

"No, I just… I'm very tired all of a sudden." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "I need to lie down."

And he did, but with all of his clothes on, and Edward had to consciously stop himself from rolling his eyes. No, he couldn't be a jerk about it. Jonathan needed a little bit of pushing in order to take care of himself properly, especially when he was working, so Edward was going to have to calm down and get it done. All right. He could do that.

"Hey," Edward said, pulling at his shoulder a little, "take your clothes off."

"Not now, Edward," Jonathan groaned. Edward laughed.

"That's not where I'm going with this. You'll be more comfortable is all I mean. Come on. Listen to me without arguing for once."

Jonathan made a face but did as he was asked, and Edward draped his shirt and pants on the back of the chair before redressing himself and joining Jonathan in bed. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" Edward asked, putting his hands behind his head. Jonathan just jabbed him with one sharp elbow.

"Hush. I'm sleeping."

There was some point where Edward woke up for a few minutes to discover that he had no shirt on, but since Jonathan had one cool hand on his chest he decided that he didn't mind. It felt incredibly pleasant. He shifted closer to Jonathan's general position and went back to sleep. The next thing he remembered was being sprawled on his stomach with one arm hanging over the side of the bed, fingers grazing the floor. He pushed himself up and put his glasses on, yawning, and looked across the room to see a handsome older man wearing faded red plaid and jeans that were mostly in good repair. Edward just stared for a few moments, his sleepy brain trying to connect this person with anyone he knew.

"Yes?" the man asked, and Edward realised it _was_ Jonathan.

"You look good," Edward mumbled, pushing his fingers under his glasses to wipe the sleep from his eyes. When he'd finished doing that Jonathan was staring at him.

"What?"

"I said you look good," Edward repeated, and though he disliked having to do that he calmed himself by remembering that he probably hadn't said it very loud. He sat up and scratched his chest. He needed a shower.

"Thank you," Jonathan said. He sounded so touched Edward almost got worried. He had his hands placed on the table and was looking down at the papers there as though they held some comfort. "My God, Edward… some things I hear from you I never thought I ever would."

Edward was not at all ready to get out of bed and would have loved to roll over and go back to sleep, but that wasn't the kind of thing you ignored. He rubbed at his face roughly and reluctantly put one of his feet on the floor. Unfortunately the rest of him followed his foot out of bed.

Jonathan was trying not to smile and probably trying not to laugh either, which Edward both appreciated and was irritated by. Jonathan had seen him fall out of bed dozens of times and he still found it funny every single time. He stood up and crossed the room, putting his arm around Jonathan's waist. His shirt was soft, which was mildly surprising. He must have been wearing the shirt for the last fifteen years at least, for it to get so soft. The papers he was looking at weren't chemistry-related, this time; they seemed to be notes on something or another. Jonathan had a doctor's handwriting and Edward wasn't totally invested in trying to read it just then.

"You smell nice," Edward murmured, a little confused about that. Jonathan was not the cleanest person Edward had ever met, and even when he made an inspired attempt he was absent-minded about it and left the job half-finished. Just then he still carried a scent that Edward could only describe as 'chemist who just crawled out of an old bookshelf and into a haystack', but it was a little... soapier. Jonathan shifted uneasily.

"I… had a lot to think about, so I was in the shower a bit longer. That probably explains it."

Jonathan had pulled Edward to his side while he said this, and in the back of Edward's mind there was something telling him _he_ needed to go have an unrushed shower right about then, but Jonathan was so soft, yet solid, and comfortable. "Imagine," Edward said, having to pause to yawn expansively, "what life would be like if you spent an extra ten minutes a day taking care of yourself. You don't even have to do it all at once. You can spread it out over your whole day if you like. The world won't end if you lose ten minutes staring at your unsightly equations." He fought off another yawn. He was more or less awake and becoming hungry.

"Don't go there or I'll have to get started on your riddles." Jonathan gave him a solid poke in the ribs and Edward winced.

"If you bruised me, I'm going to be upset."

"No you're not," Jonathan smiled, "because then I'll have to make you feel better, won't I?"

Edward considered that for a minute. It actually did hold up under scrutiny. "In that case, poke away!"

Jonathan did, saying, "Hurry and have your shower before the upstairs tenants come home. They probably won't recognise you, but better to be safe, hm?"

Edward's lip curled.

"Oh come now! You can't _want_ them to recognise you and send you to the GCPD, can you?" Jonathan's brow had settled again in its usual place of polite annoyance, which Edward found mildly upsetting. It had been nice to see the gentler Jonathan while it lasted, he supposed. He didn't have an answer that would satisfy Jonathan so he didn't bother providing one. He instead extricated himself from Jonathan's arm and walked away.

"Edward."

"Maybe I _do_ want to be recognised! So?" Edward snapped, turning with one of his hands spread in indignation. "There's nothing wrong with that!"

"It's stupid," Jonathan said plainly in answer. "It's one of those things that makes me wonder if you really are intelligent after all. Surely you would have mastered such a vain instinct by now."

Edward's fingers folded, hard, and he went upstairs without another word, seething. Sometimes Jonathan was the world's biggest jerk. He probably hadn't meant anything by what he'd said – to him, Edward's sometimes… slightly uncontrollable need for attention was something that could not be understood – but his inability to take into account there was a reason behind it, even if it made no sense to him, set Edward's teeth together. Edward, as much as he hated to admit it, could not help himself. It was just one of those undeniable compulsions that nagged and nagged and _nagged_ at him.

He took his time in the shower, not wanting to face Jonathan again for a while, but eventually the water ran cold and he was forced to step out. That was just one of the reasons he preferred to make his residences in newer buildings. They _never_ ran out of hot water, and they were well-insulated, and when things broke they didn't require some old part that was nigh non-acquirable. But no, Jonathan of course could not be happy unless he was in a barn or a warehouse or somebody's rundown basement laced ceiling to crumbling floor with layers of sticky spiderwebs –

No, that wasn't fair, Edward halted himself. The boardinghouse Jonathan had grown up in had probably been in a constant state of disrepair just to begin with, and when one was a poor university student who spent all his money on books and all of his time reading them, one developed a different view of things. Of what was a waste and what was essential. If Edward's initial impression was true and Jonathan really _had_ been wearing that shirt his entire adult life, it led from there that Jonathan allowed things to be used to their utmost extreme before beginning to even contemplate replacing them.

Edward made his way downstairs, passing someone along the way that he glanced at before remembering having his face seen was probably not the greatest idea. He looked away and unlocked the door to the basement. Hopefully they didn't know who he was, or didn't care.

Jonathan was sitting at one of the corner tables, squinting over… a sewing machine?

"You _sew_?" Edward asked, startled. Jonathan looked up. His demeanour had softened again and Edward felt inexplicably _better_ seeing that.

"There really isn't another way for me to get clothes that fit."

Edward understood that, and understood it very well, though _he_ would never do it. He'd gotten so fed up with it that he'd just started getting all of his clothes custom made. But of course Jonathan would consider that a tremendous waste. "I didn't realise you used an actual sewing machine."

Jonathan paused in what he was doing. "I didn't at first," he admitted. "As it turns out large stitches are good for effect but not very good for holding clothes together." He pushed the machine aside and folded his hands together. "Eddie… I fear you took offense at what I said about your vanity. I won't say it doesn't have its benefits, but you take it to an almost self-destructive extreme, at times. I should neither condone nor encourage _that_ , should I?"

"I…" Unfortunately, he had a point. Edward had had more than one of his meltdowns with his appearance as the catalyst. On the one hand, it was silly and stupid, but on the other… it was something he was unable to help. He wasn't in the mood to talk about it, though. He sat down at the table they'd eaten at last night and lifted the lid of the pizza box. "Do you want this?" he asked, indicating the slice that was left. He didn't completely want it himself, but he was hungry and it would do until he felt like getting something else.

"Oh, no," Jonathan said, shaking his head, "no, I will be fine for a while yet."

It was cold and mostly tasteless so he tried not to pay attention while he was eating it. It worked after Jonathan resumed his sewing. The machine was not, like most of Jonathan's things, old, but it was cheap. It appeared to be made out of a chunk of plastic that had started to crack. Edward couldn't see what he was doing from across the room, but he looked content, which meant that he wasn't doing anything Scarecrow-related. "What an odd pair we make," Jonathan said thoughtfully, though he seemed more to be discussing it with himself. "You care about yourself too much and I too little. Or perhaps it is not at all odd, but instead yet another coincidence between us." He looked over at Edward, who was putting the crust of the pizza aside. He was going to break his teeth trying to chew on it. "Come. I believe I've got this correct but I'm not completely sure."

"Eh?" Edward stood up and did as he asked anyway. When he made it around the back of the table Jonathan held out to him a pair of pants. Edward took them, confused. They were nice pants, to be sure, dark green and black plaid of some quality – in fact, the sort of pants that Edward had asked the Tailor for a few times – but what would _Jonathan_ want with them? Not only that but they didn't look like they would fit him. "Why am I holding these?"

"You're not. You're putting them on. I believe I know the size of your waist currently but not the length of your leg. I can't finish without knowing that."

Edward just stared at him.

"Edward. Have you heard a word I said? Put them _on_ , please."

"Why are you fixing a pair of pants for me?"

"I saw them when I was looking for a somewhat reasonably-sized pair of jeans a few days ago. They aren't brand-new but I saw no defects, other than the size obviously. They're the right style and colour, aren't they?"

"… yes," Edward said, doing his best to process the information and not quite succeeding. He found himself leaning against the table with an odd weakness in his limbs, but couldn't really feel it against his back. How could this be happening?

"Eddie?"

"You… you went somewhere, and saw something, and you… it made you think of me?" His throat was tight. God, he wasn't going to _cry_ over this, was he? How stupid. How utterly ridiculous.

"Oh, constantly," Jonathan told him. "I often hear your imaginary commentary when you're not available to torment me with it. Sort of like a secondary conscience I really didn't – oh Edward, you aren't _crying_ , are you?"

"No," Edward said, even though he barely heard himself say it and the hand he'd had to bring up to cover his face was now wet. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

Jonathan's chair scraped against the floor and he took the pants out of Edward's other hand, pulling him to his chest. There was no point denying it then. He was definitely crying. Over a pair of pants. He felt so incredibly pathetic but he couldn't stop.

"I will try to be kind more often," Jonathan murmured into his ear. "You need that kindness. It does not come easily to me, but I will try."

Once Edward thought he had a hold of himself he moved back, rubbing at his eyes. "I… that was stupid, I know, I – "

"No." Jonathan laid one hand on the side of his face and when Edward's eyes joined his he said, seriously, "Your feelings are not stupid. They exist for a reason. On occasion the reason is odd, but never stupid. And feeling the way you do when receiving kindness that has always been denied you… that's neither odd nor stupid. What it really is is sad, but we'll not get into that. Now, let's get these pants fitted, shall we?"

Edward sniffled a little and put them on. They fit very well indeed, and Jonathan raised his hands victoriously. "Ah, so I _do_ know the length of your legs. Excellent. I will note that for the future. I'll be needing them back to finish up."

"No, it's okay," Edward said. Jonathan smiled and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You can wear them after I've finished. They'll just fall apart if they're left as they are. I will be swift."

He removed them with some reluctance and allowed Jonathan to take them. He sat back in front of the sewing machine and positioned one of the pant legs beneath the needle with great caution. Edward hoisted himself onto the table and watched.

"And here I am," Jonathan said amusedly after a minute, "indulging your vanity. But that's not what I'm really doing, of course. I'm really indulging myself, because there is no way the Tailor can make your ass look better than I can." His smile was borderline mischievous, which was new, and Edward liked it. He wondered if there was a way to bring it out more often. "Which is, of course, the benefit to your vanity that I alluded to earlier. Having all of your clothes custom-made is, on the one hand, the mark of someone who perhaps cares about his appearance a little too much, but on the other hand… there is always _plenty_ to appreciate about a well-dressed man."

Edward had to smile at that. "Your method of cheering me up is to flatter me excessively. I must say that I like it."

"It's certainly the easiest way."

He finished in the next fifteen minutes and gave them back to Edward, who happily put them back on. Not just because he was eager to wear them, but because he had been sitting there in his underwear the whole time and he was getting cold.

"Excellent," he said, once he had them fastened. "Nice work."

"Oh," Jonathan said. He looked concerned, moving his index finger in a circular motion. "Turn around."

"What?" Edward asked, doing so and looking behind him to find the issue. He realised there wasn't one when Jonathan started laughing.

"I can't believe you fell for that."

"Fell for… oh." Edward turned to face him again, crossing his arms. "You truly have no shame, Jonathan."

"Was that not deeply obvious from the beginning?" Jonathan shook his head. "Ah, but you would be satisfied with no less. Now go and find something to do. I've much to work on and you are quite distracting."

"It's always _work_ with you," Edward grumbled, but he wasn't really upset about it. Jonathan got anxious when he didn't have enough time to himself, and Edward had to get food anyway. Most of a piece of cold pizza was not his idea of a solid breakfast.

And while he was doing that, he needed to come up with a plan. If Jonathan had no personal standards, Edward was going to have them _for_ him, dammit! It was the least he could do, considering all of the admittedly good advice and guidance he had been receiving these last months. Besides. He couldn't let his very first boyfriend fall to pieces before his eyes, could he?

 **Author's note**

 **The origin is based partially on the one in the Batman '66 comic and partially on background I invented for my Batman!Riddler AU. People generally go with Year One as an origin, but I dislike it because I think there are too many catalysts when I feel that Batman origins are more supposed to be about that one bad thing instead of those fifty bad things.**

 **I've been making an effort here to point out that Jonathan is not attractive at all, because a lot of stories I see base him on Cillian Murphy and I feel like doing that removes a large portion of Jonathan's problem in the first place: he was bullied for being ugly, among other things. It also erases a huge portion of his comic history, as Cillian Murphy looks nothing like any version of Scarecrow in the comics. Anyway, so you may have wondered why I had Edward say he was 'handsome' when I've been (and will continue to be) pointing out how ugly he is all the time. Well, I once had a friend and he was, when I first met him, the ugliest person I'd ever seen in my life. Most of the time, he was ugly. He really did have an unfortunately built face. But sometimes, because he was my friend, he was handsome. Not very often. But sometimes. So that's what that's based on.**

 **This is also me pointing out that, while Ed is very shallow and has thrown himself at women based on their appearance more than once, he's aware that there are qualities he values more when he's thinking long-term. There are a couple stories where he wants to marry the girl as soon as he sees her, but I take it more as him wanting to keep her for the now and isn't really thinking very far down the road. He sees a pretty girl and his brain shuts off lol.**


	12. Part the Twelfth

Part the Twelfth

Getting Jonathan to sleep was the easiest.

Jonathan didn't mind putting the work aside so that he could lie down next to Edward and pull him close. Jonathan would get him to remove his shirt, though he preferred to wear that and pajama pants to bed. He had said that he enjoyed seeing Edward sprawled across the bed in his underwear, which Edward understood, but he liked to sleep how he liked to sleep! How, though, could he argue when Jonathan so carefully pressed those calloused fingers into his skin, whispering in his ear about the benefits of skin-to-skin contact even though Jonathan was still wearing _his_ shirt? But Jonathan also had some fascination with the hair on Edward's chest, which he apparently did not have – Edward had yet to see for himself - and Edward had to admit he really didn't mind when Jonathan did that. Jonathan could put his hands wherever he pleased and Edward wouldn't do a thing about it, though he liked it less when Jonathan's fingers pressed into his stomach or traced the scars marring his back and arms. Besides the immense satisfaction of their closeness, Jonathan also slept better when Edward was there, which boosted his ego immensely. When Edward asked why he thought that was, Jonathan's lips had only quirked mischievously and he'd said he need to do more research to work that out.

Edward could _hardly_ argue with that.

Sometimes, when Edward was not as tired, he would help Jonathan out a little. He would get Jonathan to remove his shirt and then he would press his fingers into Jonathan's spine, from the base of his skill to his waist. The task required great care, as Jonathan's thin skin was almost always bruised someplace and his scarring was worse than Edward's, but he tried to be forceful yet delicate where required. After a while Jonathan would sit, shifting his shoulders, and his spine would crackle powerfully, in what sounded like an incredibly painful process. But Jonathan would only moan in satisfied relief and turn lazily onto his stomach. Edward was understandably concerned the first time this happened – it sounded like his back was _breaking_ –but Jonathan had only shaken his head.

"Tall people often have back problems," he'd murmured. "You have to stretch yourself out to do certain things; I have to compress myself. You may develop issues, but considering the fact that you are, in certain ways, more cunning than I, you probably won't. I hope not, in any case. They're not all that fun."

And then he had turned over long enough to grasp Edward's forearm and pull it across his back, and Edward had laughed and pressed his body into Jonathan's.

Something he continued there from their time in the Asylum was taking care of Jonathan's feet. Jonathan was a physical mess overall, but Jonathan hated shoes and refused to wear them if at all possible. His soles were a roughened, calloused mess and there was always some amount of dirt clinging to his skin. Edward actually didn't mind doing it at all; he more minded the fact that Jonathan had let it get so bad. But as for attempting to fix the damage, Edward actually found it somewhat relaxing and soothing, much the way the counting was. He enjoyed the process of taking damaged things and making them new again, though he never quite got there because Jonathan would have needed much more extensive help than he would allow Edward to give. But he would sit quietly and watch as Edward tried to remove some of the stubbornly clinging dead skin and to repair that which was reversibly damaged. When he finished he would sit next to Jonathan, who would put an arm around his shoulders. The first time, Edward asked, "Doesn't that feel better?"

"It does," Jonathan had agreed. "It stings a little."

"That happens," Edward had said, and he'd taken the free hand Jonathan had left in his lap in his own. He wished often that he could do something about Jonathan's hands as well, but they were marred so badly with callouses and scarring that Edward didn't believe there was a whole lot he could do. Jonathan had noticed the way he looked at the hand he had just taken, and he had smiled and kissed the top of Edward's head and told him, "What you have done is enough."

The bigger problem, however, was eating. Jonathan had an unusual dislike for it, balking at more than one simple meal a day, though he drank black coffee as though it were water. He claimed it calmed him down, instead of made him anxious, and after watching him carefully Edward came to believe him. Whenever Edward pressed the issue, which he did more often than he should have if he was being quite honest, Jonathan would shut down on him. And not just for a little while, either. At one point he refused to say a word for an entire two days. _That_ was torture of an inhumane kind. He wasn't entirely able to stop himself from continuing to badger Jonathan about it a little – all right, _more_ than a little – but he decided there was also action to be taken that would perhaps move things along a little faster: if he made himself something, and left a portion for Jonathan, perhaps when Jonathan got up for coffee or ventured to look inside the refrigerator he would chance upon it and decide to take it back to his table.

To Edward's delight… he did!

Not every time. Sometimes he left it, or perhaps didn't notice it at all. He never talked about it, and it was one of the most difficult things he'd had to do in a while but Edward managed not to talk about it either. If he said a single word about this, Jonathan would step back entirely and Edward would be back at zero, no doubt about that. He had to instead focus on the victory he'd achieved: that of getting Jonathan to do something he needed to do, but had no desire to. It was immensely satisfying to return from his own errands to find that the only trace that Jonathan had gotten up, other than to leave that was, was the container on the table which Edward had left for him.

He doubted he had ever been so thrilled to see dirty dishes before.

It didn't seem he was going to be able to reduce Jonathan's coffee intake any, but since he couldn't tell whether or not it made him less or more irritated it was unclear at this point if he even needed to. So he was going to have to count that one as a loss. Still. He was getting places with this! Jonathan seemed content to allow Edward to do these things, as long as he was somewhat discreet. He had to remind himself now and again that Jonathan wasn't used to this and was probably being difficult out of sheer habit. Though probably with equal parts calculated stubbornness. He wasn't going to let Edward have what he wanted without a fight, ohhhh no.

It was a good thing Edward liked the sound of that.

Edward couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Jonathan was sitting calmly at one of his tables, which was covered in all manners of lab equipment, paper, writing instruments, and cups long since drained of coffee. And he had rolled up the sleeve of one bony arm and was carefully filling a small needle with translucent orange fluid. As Edward watched he injected the contents into his arm, without flinching, and after closing his eyes for a long moment he actually seemed... relieved. He replaced the needle in his hand with a pen and started writing something down.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Edward asked incredulously, and Jonathan snapped around to look at him. "That wasn't a _drug_ , was it?"

"No! Don't be ridiculous. A toxin and a stimulant are two completely different things and I would expect you to know that."

"That's sure what it looked like."

Jonathan inhaled sharply. "That's what it looked like, but that's not what it is. Look. I have to test my toxins _somehow_. And since I have been using myself as my initial test subject for years, it's easier to gauge them myself than to run trials. Kidnapping people is bothersome and not worth my time if I can help it."

Edward stepped closer, an idea coming to life in his brain. "But if you did have another test subject, and dosed them as small as that... you could use it for other things, couldn't you?"

Jonathan looked very tired. "What are you really after," he said finally.

Edward placed his palms on the table and leaned forward. "I want you to use that on me so that I can lose my fear of my father."

Jonathan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, elbows on the tabletop. "That's not going to work."

"No, listen. It's like what you do for phobias. Repeated exposure kills the fear. Desensitisation."

"No. It's not going to work like that.

"Jonathan, listen. I -"

"You listen!" Jonathan shouted, and Edward jumped. The toxin seemed to be doing _something_ , if only heightening Jonathan's emotions. "Who is the doctor here?"

"You are, but -"

"But nothing! It won't work. I'm not doing it."

"You don't know it won't work. You were only a psychiatrist shortly, and not a very good one."

Jonathan's eyes were so sharp and his face so outraged that Edward thought Jonathan was going to slap him. He flinched, but it didn't come.

"I suppose I deserved that," Jonathan said in a low voice, through his teeth. "But my success rate and my knowledge on this matter are two entirely different things. I'm not doing it."

"You said you would help me with this!" Edward shouted.

"And I will. But that won't work."

"And what will?" he demanded. "You have no plan, you have no method to help me. You don't know how."

"Edward, you are a very special case and I don't think you appreciate just how complex it is. I could work with you for years and see no result. I'm not holding out on you. I just haven't thought of a solution yet."

"Why won't you let me try this, then? It's my decision and I bear the consequences."

"Fine! Fine. If it will get you to shut up, I will do it." And he reached across the table and picked up a fresh needle, which he filled partway with the toxin, and held his hand out for Edward's arm without looking at him. Edward gave Jonathan his wrist and the long fingers gripped it, Jonathan's cracked fingertips touching the back of Edward's elbow. Jonathan turned his attention then to Edward's arm, but other than poising the needle somewhere over Edward's wrist he didn't move.

"What?"

Jonathan sighed and looked up at him. "I don't want to do this."

"You just said that you would!"

"I am supposed to do no harm, and this is only going to hurt you. That is not something I want to do."

"Now's not the time to uphold the Hippocratic Oath, Jon. I've asked you enough times."

Jonathan would not meet his eyes.

The chemical burned as soon as it was injected, as it had the first time, but the dose was so much smaller that it didn't overwhelm him. He didn't feel that much different. He was about to ask if Jonathan had dosed him properly when it seemed to him that the room had darkened. As though some fog had settled into the walls. He frowned. If Jonathan had worsened his eyesight, he was going to –

Where _was_ Jonathan? He had been right there, and now…

"Edward."

He gasped and went to move backwards, falling over the chair beside him and colliding with the floor. Not here! _How_ had he been found? It was impossible!

Not only that, but he was _bigger_ than Edward remembered, he was both taller and wider and his eyes, his eyes seemed to glow even in the dimness! Edward fought to take a breath as he sought the wall. He didn't feel any safer once it was against his back.

His father leaned over him, impossibly large, and he put his hand on Edward's shoulder. Edward jerked away, folding himself as small as possible. "No," he whispered, unable to make any sound louder. "No, please, I haven't done anything – "

"Edward. It's me. Jonathan."

Who the hell was Jonathan, and what would he have to do with this anyway? Edward shook his head and tried to move further, but he was pinned up against some object unknown.

"Please, I _left_ , I left the _country_ and you didn't want me around anyway so why do you keep _following me?!_ Leave me alone, father, _please!"_

"I'm not your father."

"I know you wish you weren't! You've told me enough!" He pressed his forehead into the object he'd collided with, his glasses cutting into the bridge of his nose. Why had his father followed him _here_? Where _was_ he, anyway? This wasn't the Asylum, nor the GCPD, nor his home! Had his father gone so far as to _kidnap_ him this time?

"I'm walking away. I'm not having any part of this. I knew it was a stupid idea."

His work was done nonetheless, because Edward had already closed his eyes.

Over the next several days Edward convinced Jonathan to continue with the experiment, and each time Jonathan expressed his disagreement with the whole thing and his reluctance to do it. But Edward would harangue Jonathan until he got fed up enough to follow through, and then Edward would fall into the hallucination over again. It wasn't even the illusion that got to him, it was the _memories_ it pulled into the forefront of his mind. Jonathan stepped away within a minute or so of the toxin's run, but it didn't matter. His looming shadow was all that Edward's intoxicated mind needed to transform the illusion into the past.

It didn't even end there, with the course of the toxin finished; at night Edward was gripped with terrible nightmares and woke up short of breath and drenched in sweat. He would go upstairs and press his forehead into the bathroom mirror, and he would wash his shaking hands and tell himself this would fix everything, that if he did this he would be able to fight it next time. To stand up for himself against the shadow that lived mostly in his own mind. While he was doing it he believed what he told himself, but afterward was different. Afterward, he went outside and sat on the steps to berate himself for acting so stupidly – the ritual only brought _imagined_ solutions, not literal ones, and he knew that! – but what was done was done and he did his best to talk himself out of the self-flagellation. Once he felt calm enough he would go back to bed, but ignore Jonathan still. He would lie on his side with his back to the other, and he would feel Jonathan's eyes on him but he would not speak.

The treatment really _wasn't_ working. Edward not only did not feel better, he felt _worse_. Sick and jittery, nervous, as though what he was _actually_ doing was conditioning himself to see his father in every shadow and every sliver of light below the doors. On the sixth day something snapped in the back of Edward's head as the fog dissipated, and he stood up with his heart clenched in his throat.

"Jonathan!"

Jonathan appeared from in front of one of the bookshelves, holding a stack in one arm that he may or may not have been reshelving. "Yes?"

"This isn't working. This is making me feel _worse_!"

"I know."

There was something helpless in Edward's chest. He didn't know quite what it was, so he decided it was anger and stalked towards Jonathan, fists clenched. "What are you doing wrong, then?"

Jonathan put the stack on the shelf, where it perched precariously. "I don't believe this is the right treatment for you. You need something else, something I haven't figured out yet. I'm working on it."

"You're lying," Edward said behind clenched teeth, and before his mind had time to register the decision he had pinned Jonathan against the bookshelf, the black and blue plaid bunched beneath his fingers. "You're enjoying this. Aren't you."

"No," Jonathan protested, his own hands gaining purchase on some lower shelf. "No, of course not. I -"

"You _wanted_ this to happen!" Edward shouted, pressing harder, and he could feel Jonathan's pulse against his forearms. Good. He deserved it, after what he had pulled. "You _want_ me to see my father in every corner, _don't_ you? It's so much easier to control your _toadies_ when you make them fear everything they see. Isn't that right, Professor?"

"No," Jonathan said, making no attempt to remove Edward, not that he likely had the strength to. He may have been taller, but Edward outweighed him in both gross and muscle mass by quite a bit. "That's not true."

"You tricked me!" His fists were clenched at his sides now, though he didn't remember doing so. "You used reverse psychology to trick me into doing this!"

"That is not at all what happened," Jonathan said, frowning. "I only provide you the injections because you insist on _pestering_ me to do so."

"That's what you want me to _think_!" Edward snapped, stepping forward. "You're _enjoying_ this, aren't you! A free and willing participant for one of your little _experiments_."

"You are aware that you are making absolutely no sense right now, I hope." Jonathan's gaze was infuriatingly level. "That solution isn't even new. It's hardly an experiment if I already know what it does. Perhaps you can take this as a sign that we should try some other means of solving your problem."

"You said you would fix me."

"I said I would help you and I fully intend to. You need to understand that – "

"You did this on _purpose_!" Edward interrupted, and with a sudden strength he threw Jonathan to the floor. Jonathan took a steadying breath but did not rise farther than his elbows would support him. "You did this to hold power over me!"

" _We_ did this," Jonathan said, "because _you_ wanted to help _yourself_. No, I should not have allowed it, but the blame here does not solely lie with me."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Edward demanded, and he was breathing far too hard but what was he to do with all this sudden aggressive energy? Jonathan was already on the floor. Jonathan was also refusing to react to his anger and it was only infuriating him further. "Why haven't you done it yet?"

"Because I don't know how," Jonathan told him. "You were right to believe that the exposure therapy could have worked. What you fail to understand, however, is that describing your relationship with your father as a fear is reducing it to one element, and that is not enough. It's far more complicated than that."

Dammit, _why_ did Jonathan have to be so calm and rational about this? That was _not_ the projected reaction! He was supposed to be _angry_ , he was supposed to be _threatening_ Edward so he had reason to continue to exercise his own frustrations! But he was just down there calmly staring up!

Jonathan was still offering to help. And Jonathan had left a question at the end of his statement, which Edward needed to know the answer to. He did not want to ask, but _he had to know_. "What are you talking about."

Jonathan sat slowly, pressing his fingers into the opposite shoulder for a long second. "You need to understand something before you can get anywhere with this: you have spent your entire life trying to prove your father wrong."

"I have not!" Edward protested, and Jonathan looked away, seemingly in exasperation, and held up one hand to stop him.

"You have. Your entire concept of self revolves around what you believe would finally allow him to care about you. You didn't _plan_ to become a criminal when you came to Gotham. You came to Gotham to find some work that would lead into your dream career at the FBI, and once you had that success in hand you would have found some beautiful, intelligent woman at the Bureau and you would have married her and had a beautiful, intelligent son. And you would have returned to – "

"Daughter," Edward said, without meaning to.

"Daughter?"

"I wanted – " Why did he feel so close to tears now? He pressed a fist over his mouth.

"A daughter, then," Jonathan said kindly. "Your spoiled little princess, no doubt. And your plan was to bring her and your wife back to Canada to show your father. To show him he was wrong. That you _were_ smart, and you _were_ worth it. That you _could_ make it. But even if you had done that, it would not have been enough. It would not have been enough to change his mind, because he does not _want_ it to be changed. And that is why a few days of toxin was not enough to help you. Because you're _not afraid_ _of him_. You're afraid of _failure_ , and your concept of success hinges on what your father would say of you. It doesn't matter what you do with your life, nor whom you become. He is never going to approve of you. He is never going to be proud of you. He is never going to love you."

"But that's not fair," Edward whispered, and his knees hurt because his legs had given out and slammed them into the floor. "That's not fair."

None of it. None of it was! That wasn't really how he was acting, was it? He wasn't _really_ living his life in a vain effort to impress a man who had despised him the moment he'd laid eyes on him?

But why else did he insist on dressing well always? Why were his standards for himself and everyone he interacted with in depth so high? Why else with the pursuit of perfection? He didn't have anything to prove to _himself_...

... but that was half of Jonathan's point, wasn't it? That he _did_ have something to prove to himself, and that he was trying to go about it by attempting to become something he could never be. Even if he turned everything around and picked back up on his original plans, he could never be the son his father wanted because _his father did not want a son at all._

"That's not fair," Edward whispered, and he realised his cheeks were wet. "That's not fair!"

"It isn't," Jonathan agreed. "That's why you have to _make_ it fair. Show him you're not afraid. Show him he doesn't matter. Think of him the same way he thinks of you. Only then will you be able to realise who you are truly supposed to be."

"I can't!" He pressed his forehead into the bookshelf so that Jonathan wouldn't see his face. "I can't do that!"

"Why."

He didn't even _have_ a reason. "I can't!"

"You owe him nothing. You have nothing to prove to him. You will never be good enough not because you aren't, but because he never wanted you to begin with."

"Stop!" He had his hands pressed to his ears but they weren't keeping Jonathan's voice out at all. He had to be wrong. His father would come around one day, he knew it. He would do something incredible, something his father _could not ignore_. And it would fix everything. It would make everything right. Jonathan was wrong.

It wasn't true. He had not wasted the last ten-odd years striving for the impossible. It wasn't true.

"Eddie," Jonathan said softly. "You know I understand, don't you? I know how you feel. I have been there. My history is much the same as yours. I too have parents who removed me from their existence and moved on. And so must you. I can help you. But you have to let go of him. He has already done so with you, and any interaction beyond that is merely some sort of game on his part. You do not have to play."

"No," Edward whispered, because his throat was almost closed. "That's not true." That wasn't fair. It wasn't. Jonathan was... Edward didn't know what he was trying to do, but he was wrong. He had to be.

Jonathan sighed and pressed a hand to one of his shoulders, and then he left.

 **Author's note**

 **The beginning of this part… I think Ed would love to take care of someone, once they were** ** _his_** **someone that is, just as much as he wants to be taken care of himself. So we start with Edward taking care of Jonathan physically, and then go back to Jonathan taking care of Edward's mind. Or trying to. Like Edward, he knows what the issues that need to be fixed are, but unlike Edward, he hasn't decided yet on what to do about them. Thing is, there's a difference between having a doctorate and being a doctor, and since the DCU doesn't seem to care about the difference I just said 'to hell with it' and made him a psychiatrist even though he isn't qualified to be one in this verse. So he doesn't really know what to do about Edward's pile of issues because he's not actually certified to be a psychiatrist. He knows OF what to do, but has no practical experience with applying any treatment whatsoever.**


	13. Part the Thirteenth

Part the Thirteenth

"Have you been out here long enough?"

Edward shook his head.

Jonathan sat down beside him on the stairs and looked out at the voluminous weeds sprouting from beneath the asphalt of the alley. It was darkening, the sky staining the brick houses beyond with blue, which about matched how Edward was feeling. As though something were being drawn over his head inexorably to prevent him from seeing the light, making him cold and empty on the inside. He hadn't felt like this in a long while.

"You can't stay out here much longer."

Edward tried to feel something to hear that, but instead of touched or even mildly happy he just sort of wished something unsafe _would_ happen. Not because he wanted particularly to be injured or anything of the sort; more along the lines of tragedy taking responsibility away from him for a while. If he had to take care of some emergency, he wouldn't have to do anything about this mess. He didn't answer.

"It wasn't a request that you come inside, by the way. You have to come in now."

"Why, so you can officially kick me out?" Edward snapped bitterly. He could feel Jonathan's confused frown on him immediately.

"Kick you out? Why in the world would I do that?"

"Now you know. You know what a pathetic coward I am."

" _Coward_ ," Jonathan said incredulously. "I don't think you a coward. To the contrary you have shown bravery these last days."

Bravery?

"It takes a lot to face your fear multiple times a day and make the conscious decision to keep doing so," Jonathan continued. "You insisted I have you face it, and then you faced it again at night in sleep. You wanted desperately to help yourself though it terrified you beyond reason. That is brave."

Edward was more thinking along the lines of 'stupid', but then again he wasn't at his best currently. "I'm so tired of being afraid, Jon," he said quietly, and he pressed his free hand into his brow. "I'm so tired of being manipulated through fear by the shadow of someone I don't even care about!"

"I have... one dose of an anti-toxin," Jonathan said slowly. "It won't work immediately nor will it negate all lingering effects, but... it's something. Would you like me to get it?"

Jonathan… had been concerned. Enough so to draw up an antitoxin.

Now Edward really _did_ feel touched. He had never meant for Jonathan to feel any responsibility for Edward's decision, but it seemed he did nonetheless. Edward wondered if it would be all right if he casually leaned into Jonathan's shoulder. He suddenly didn't want to be alone anymore.

"No thanks," he mumbled, putting the spoon back into the pint and folding his arms across himself. "I'll wait it out."

"Good man," Jonathan murmured, and they seemed to be having similar thoughts because Jonathan's arm around his shoulders subtly led Edward against him. "You are still coming inside though. I think you've sat out here with your ice cream long enough."

"It's delicious," Edward said.

"I didn't dispute that, but I doubt sugar and fear toxin are a good combination."

"I'm not feeling too amazing right now," Edward admitted. Not nauseous or anything like that, but exhausted and with a horrible pain between his eyes.

"You need sleep and real food." He gave a squeeze to Edward's shoulder and stood up. "Come. The toxin should have degraded enough that you'll not have nightmares."

Edward reluctantly allowed Jonathan to help him up and somewhat staggered into the doorway. He was dizzy suddenly, and fatigue washed over him. God, he _did_ need sleep. Hopefully Jonathan was right and the toxin's effect was more or less gone.

"What should I do with this?" Jonathan asked, and Edward glanced behind him to see that he was holding the pint. Edward made a noise of discontent and waved at it vaguely.

"Just throw it away. I don't want to see it again."

"You want me to _waste_ it?" He sounded appalled. Edward just rubbed at his eyes.

"If you want it, have it. I already had far too much." Stupid. Stupid to have so much sugar in one sitting. That was probably the cause of his headache. He made his way into the basement and collapsed onto his side on the bed, glasses dangling between his fingers. Away from the sharp and distracting chill outside, he just felt even sicker than before. Stupid. He was _so stupid_!

He heard Jonathan close the door only because the hinges squealed, and he didn't resist when his glasses were extracted from his hand. Jonathan's fingers on his forehead, gently brushing back the unwashed hair there, were cool.

"I'll be along in a little while," he said softly. "I've something to do first."

He wasn't coming. He was just saying that to be nice. He hated Edward, he knew it. Pathetic Edward and his stupid childhood problems. A _smart_ person would have grown up by now. 'There is still a spark of that little boy in you,' Jonathan had said. Oh, there was a spark all right. A massive one that burned when he thought about it.

It really wasn't fair that he should be so undoubtedly brilliant and yet so unforgivably stupid at the same time.

* * *

When he woke up he didn't feel very much better. A little less tired, maybe. And he was too warm, which meant Jonathan wasn't there. "Jonathan," he called half-heartedly.

"What," Jonathan said, not loudly but Edward could still gauge him as sitting at the table.

"You said you'd come."

Jonathan laughed. "I did. It's seven thirty in the morning. How long did you expect me to stare at the ceiling for on your account?"

"As long as I wanted you to," Edward said, somewhat grumpily now that he knew what time it was. Far too early. He did not want to be awake right now.

"So forever, then." Jonathan sat down on the edge of the bed next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "You just wanted me to come so you could complain, hm?"

"No," Edward said. God, he was still so tired. "My stomach hurts." He didn't even really know why he'd said it. Jonathan wasn't going to care. Jonathan was in constant pain and he just dealt with it like a truly strong person would. The type of person Edward was not.

"And your head still?"

How had he known that? "Yeah."

"Sit. I'll bring you some water."

The cup he brought was dirty, and tasted of coffee grounds and rust, but apparently Edward _was_ incredibly thirsty because he drank it anyway. He didn't let Jonathan take the cup when he was finished. He wanted to have something to hold onto.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked after a minute. Jonathan's vein of sympathy was about as long as his little finger.

"I must shoulder some of the responsibility for this," Jonathan said gravely. "I knew better but I allowed you to push me into it anyway. More than once. That is gross negligence on my part. And -" Here he paused to place a hand on Edward's knee, and he wasn't looking but he could feel the serious beam of the older man's eyes. "You are my friend. Callous as I may be, I have no desire to watch you suffer. I really don't."

"No one said you had to look," Edward said, holding onto the cup a little more tightly. He couldn't dare hope that Jonathan honestly did care, could he?

"Now Edward," Jonathan told him softly, "how could I possibly resist looking at you?"

He didn't even have time to think about whether he wanted to or not; he started laughing, and when he met Jonathan's eyes at last he nodded once.

"That's better. Now lie down. It's early for you yet and I have no medicine, so you're going to have to sleep off the pain."

"A doctor with no medicine?" Edward said mockingly, though he did as he was told, handing off the mug as he did so.

"I'm not _that_ kind of doctor."

"Best one I ever had."

"And that tells greatly of the state of the Asylum staff." He stood, moving his shoulders back until they cracked. "I really don't know how any of them acquired a license..."

* * *

Edward didn't sleep, not really; he dozed off and on, not enough to get any rest but enough so that he didn't try to get up. When he did decide he was done in bed it was because he had taken a breath to sigh in his sleep and inhaled something magical. He didn't know what it was, only that he _needed_ to know. He sat up and clumsily stuck his fingers into his eyes.

"What is that?"

"Hm?"

"That smell. What is it?"

"Lunch," Jonathan said. "Or breakfast, I suppose. Whatever you'd like to call it."

"You made food?" Now he really did need to get up.

"I did."

He got his glasses onto his face and swung a leg over the side of the bed. Of course the rest of him followed suit and he had to disentangle the sheet from himself while lying on the floor. Jonathan was laughing, like always, and Edward sighed in a long-suffering sort of way and piled the fabric on the mattress.

"Do you really enjoy my misery that much?"

"Not at all," Jonathan answered. "It's funny because you carry yourself with such grace and poise and yet fall out of bed many mornings."

Well _that_ certainly improved his mood. He was well aware that Jonathan was saying all these things so he would stop sulking, and not because he really meant them, but hey. Edward took what was offered.

He stood up a little straighter than he might have otherwise and crossed over to the stove, where the source of his rising simmered gently on the back burner. He made to lift the lid but Jonathan snapped, "It's not ready yet! Go clean yourself up and it will be done by then."

He frowned and touched the beard struggling to maintain life on his jaw. It was true he was filthy, as he had been too agitated these last days to really uphold his high standards of hygiene, but it still hurt a little to hear. As though he had so quickly lost the approval Jonathan had given him the night before.

"I only ask you to make yourself beautiful for me," Jonathan followed up in a softer voice, and Edward was not entirely sure of his sincerity – considering he had been entirely too free with such statements, conveniently when Edward was… not at his best - but he smiled anyway and said as haughtily as he could, "I do that for myself and only myself." And he lifted his chin enough to look over his glasses at Jonathan, who did not even glance at him.

"Go on, then."

Edward did so, intending not to take overly long because he was now wide awake and starving, but that plan was dashed when he saw the state of the washroom. Jonathan nor the upstairs tenants seemed to appreciate how a clean environment helped one to achieve higher standards with themselves, and it was a disaster. Wet towels lay piled beneath the racks, the rug was soaked, the mirror was covered in soap spots, there was hair _everywhere_ and someone had broken his comb. Edward stood there for a long minute with his clenched hands to his mouth, asking the universe if it would allow him to retain his sanity in this time of crisis - and the apparent disappearance of the lady of the house, who usually alongside himself kept things more or less neat - and then got to work.

He felt much improved after he had removed several days' worth of fear-toxin induced sweat from his body, and once he had shaved and then combed back his hair - as usual failing to tame that one strand - he decided that this was a sign he had put the last week behind him. It was a new start, and he was going to treat it as such. And he was going to work out some means of dealing with his problem. He wasn't yet sure what he needed to do about it, other than that he either needed permission from his father to move on with his life as he saw fit or that he needed to stop caring so much. One of those things was impossible and the other nearly so, but he would figure it out. That was that he did, after all.

He returned downstairs with gusto, the next thing on his mind discovering just what it was Jonathan knew how to cook, and he realised that the dishes had probably not been done since his... episode and he was going to have to take care of that as well. Jonathan had at least moved all of his coffee cups into the sink but they were just stacked there and half-heartedly filled with the odd rusting water that the faucet produced. Edward bit back a sigh and hoped the dishes on the table had some semblance of cleanliness.

"Much better," Jonathan said briskly. "You look like yourself again."

"Am I beautiful enough for you?" Edward teased, sitting down across from him, and Jonathan smiled a little.

"You should know by now my standards as per your appearance are very low." He stood up and moved to the stove, giving the contents of the pot another round of stirring before returning with it. "If there's something amiss I haven't the rights to judge."

"Of course you do," Edward said quietly, as Jonathan brought the pot to the table and set it down. "If I'm a filthy mess I need to be told."

"I could have told you that every day and you still would not have moved until you were able." Jonathan's voice was level. "Sometimes we shut down for a while. It happens." He offered Edward a ladle and he supposed it was so he could serve himself. He did so, standing up so as to reach better and sitting again once he had spooned a good amount into his bowl. He knew what Jonathan was saying was true - that wasn't the first time he'd done it - but it didn't make it any easier.

"What is this?" he asked to change the subject. He didn't actually care what; his proximity to it made him unbearably hungry and if it had been pineapple stew he probably would have eaten it anyway.

"Something," Jonathan answered, but did not elaborate enough for Edward's liking.

He swallowed with difficulty and remarked, "I didn't know you knew how to cook." He hadn't in all the time Edward had been there.

He heaved a breath and said, "One of the chores I used to do for my... parent was make supper for the boarders. As any 'self-respecting cook' will tell you -" and here he rolled his eyes, "family recipes are passed down by demonstration, not paper. I was not family, and she had no children, and yet I am the last to hold them."

"It's good," Edward said, because now he needed to switch topics again so Jonathan wouldn't get annoyed about having to reminisce. Christ, there seemed to be a lot of touchy subjects between the two of them.

"Out of curiosity," Jonathan said, in an eerily conversational voice, "where is it you go during the day?"

Something tightened in the back of Edward's throat. He wasn't sure why. He swallowed back hard his mouthful of soup and answered, "I go out for lunch and then I work on my property."

"Your what?"

Edward placed the spoon carefully into the thick liquid his bowl held. "My property. I own a sort of... warehouse that I'm converting."

Jonathan's eyes were fixed on him now and it was incredibly disconcerting. "Into what?"

Something about this situation was putting Edward's stomach on edge. There was some unsettling... _domesticity_ about all of this. Edward's boyfriend had made him dinner to make up for the incident he had partially been to blame for, and was asking about Edward's day as if he actually cared. It was surreal.

It felt familiar. Too much so. And not in a good way. He found that he was struggling to control his breathing rate as Jonathan calmly and patiently waited for him to answer the question.

Oh. Oh, _now_ he understood.

"A deathtrap," Edward said as normally as he could, staring intensely at the jagged wood of Jonathan's table. "I... it's a large-scale puzzle."

"Oh," Jonathan said, somewhat interestedly. No, Edward was probably imagining that. Of _course_ he was imagining that. "I'd like to see it sometime. It must be quite a feat of engineering."

 _No!_ Edward wanted to shout at him. _You can't go there, that's my private space! If I take you there where will I hide?_

He was honestly not sure anymore whom his thoughts were really directed towards, but he _was_ sure he couldn't take the chance again. This was not going to be the only time this happened. It was going to happen again and again and again, until the day came Jonathan too raised a hand against him that first time, and Edward would take it because he was pathetic like that.

So he had to prevent it. Now. Before it was too late, and their positions were cemented in a way Edward could not break. He pushed away from the table and stood, without looking at Jonathan.

"Edward?"

At the very least he needed to think this over someplace else. His thoughts were shifting over each other, in a disorganised flurry which was not at all usual procedure. Something was amiss here, and he needed to know what.

He needed to know if this was a risk worth taking.

* * *

"I am not a fan of chasing you, I'll have you know."

Edward tapped the ash off his cigarette and did not look at him. Nevertheless he could feel the distinct presence of Jonathan standing over him. "I wasn't expecting you to."

"So what _have_ you been waiting for?"

He finished the cigarette and flicked it into the encroaching darkness. Might as well get it over with. "I want out."

"Out of what?"

He used his left hand to gesture vaguely. "This. Whatever 'this' is. This thing we've had going on. I've had enough."

Jonathan did not respond to that for such a long time that Edward couldn't help himself: he looked behind him. Jonathan's jaw was set firmly, and his arms were crossed enough that the veins below his plaid shirtsleeves stood out.

"So that's it," he said finally. "You've just decided that's that."

"Yeah." He was trying not to think about it too much. 'Them', even as a concept, didn't make sense, and smacked too much of something he did not want to face ever again. Jonathan caring about Edward, ha! The letdown was coming, he could feel it. No one had ever been so nice to Edward for so long without blowing everything up in his face. It was coming. He knew it was.

"I have put so much into this," Jonathan said, his anger barely contained, "and you do not have so much as an explanation as to why you are so blatantly disrespecting me?"

When he put it like that, it did sound like a terrible thing a terrible person would do… but hell, Edward had told him that in the first place. "I don't need a reason. If it's not working it's not working."

"Liar." Jonathan's voice was low but it snapped Edward into alertness. "This is about your father again. Again! You can't stand the fact that daddy is never going to love you, so instead of solving your problem you elect to do all you can to deny its existence. Very well."

Edward swallowed and knotted his fingers together. He was right, of course. He always was. That _was_ what it was about. Not that he believed Jonathan even really wanted him to be there anymore, but even if he did, Edward had never been good at sticking around. Edward was good at running away from things, and avoiding them, and he was simply magnificent at lying to himself excessively enough that he could believe whatever he said… but Edward never stayed.

He wasn't sure why he found an apology sticking to the back of his throat. He didn't have anything to be sorry for, did he?

 _Of course you do. How many times did you go over the fact that you were the only one he had ever been with? Ever gotten to know? Ever_ trusted? _This is low, even for you._

"He should have known better."

 _He is not to blame for your behaviour. He has done nothing._

"He obviously wasn't as smart as I thought he was."

 _The real issue is that you are even worse of a person than you thought you were._

He rubbed at his eyes. No, that was right. That was completely, totally right. And he was only going to get worse, he thought to himself as he stood up and stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. Because here he was, walking away again. From the man who had done nothing but forced him to face what he was.

He looked back at the door for a minute. Maybe he could still salvage this. Still salvage _himself_. He and Jonathan didn't work on the surface, no, but _beneath_ that… wasn't there something worth trying for? The something that he'd agreed to all of this for in the beginning?

Oh, he didn't know. Once he had to leave the persona behind, the charming and enigmatic schemer who had confidence for everyone in a hundred-mile radius, everything fell apart. It always did. The only solution was to walk away before _he_ fell apart right along with everything else.

He set off towards his property.


	14. Part the Fourteenth

Part the Fourteenth

Once there he spent several hours marking the walls with paint and trying not to think; this resulted in a jumbled mess of sequences that did not go together at all, but every time he got caught up in remembering what he'd done he had to start over again. He only stopped when he was shaking so much with exhaustion that he was getting more paint on himself than anywhere else. When he got to that point he just tossed the brush into a corner and collapsed on the floor.

He didn't know where things had gone wrong, but he wished he'd never gotten involved in the first place. Being alone was hard, but at least the only one affected by him was himself.

* * *

He spent the next few days feverishly working on his deathtrap, putting more effort into the implements than he had in the entire year he'd owned the place. Granted, he'd spent a large portion of the year in the Asylum, but for a man of his brains that was hardly an excuse. And, as before, he spent as much time as possible trying not to think, because he was beginning to get the horrible impression he had been wrong. He didn't _want_ to be wrong, and he hoped to hell he wasn't, but the more time he spent there wiring up his security systems the more time the back of his mind had to work away at the problem he'd left unsolved. Because he _had_ left it unsolved. He could admit that much.

Oh, but that made him _want_ to solve it! But he couldn't, not now. It was too late. He couldn't go back there now, asking for forgiveness. That was… _weak_.

Or was _this_? He'd been wearing the same clothes for near a week now, had neither shaved nor showered in all that time, and had been sleeping on an electrified floor while sustaining himself on pizza pockets and baby carrots. Deplorable. He would never want Jonathan to see him like this.

Not that Jonathan was going to be seeing him again if Edward could help it.

He tiredly rubbed at his eyes with one hand, his thumb ending up in his sideburns and leading his hand to run through his untended beard. Shameful. There was no reason for him to be in this state, none at all. If he was going to run away from his problems he had damned well do it like a civilised man and not some rejected puppy. Which he was not. He was the source of said rejection, not the rejectee.

It was probably the first time _that_ had happened, and now he thought about it… it didn't feel all that good.

Edward wasn't all that inclined to do things for others; after all, throughout his life there had been _hardly_ anyone willing to do _him_ any favours. And certainly no one willing to do so for the steep, steep price of gratification. But now that he considered it… he'd been _happy_ , doing things for Jonathan. It had been… almost pleasant, solving someone else's problems. Soothing, in some elusive way.

Come to think of it… Jonathan had been solving his in return, hadn't he. But Jonathan had said it himself: Edward's solutions were going to be complex, and hard to unearth and harder yet to implement. It wasn't as simple as putting lunch in the refrigerator. Edward required other things, such as time and energy, less tangible things that nonetheless were very hard to come by.

He swallowed and bit his tongue a little. This was _exactly_ why he hadn't wanted to think about it. Because it meant what he had done didn't make any sense, and it was not only wrong but _disrespectful_. He still wanted Jonathan's respect, almost _craved_ it – if he was being honest, may as well admit he actually did – and walking out with nary an explanation nor a goodbye had been just… _wrong_.

He did _not_ like being wrong.

Well, he _could_ always… go back. Return to life as it had been.

No, he couldn't. Jonathan would kill him, that was without question. If Jonathan knew where he was he would have killed him already. He had gravely insulted Jonathan and he would not stand for that. Edward was either going to have to face up to this or die screaming. And facing up probably meant he'd die screaming anyway.

He frowned and rubbed his thumb against the sole of his shoe. Now seemed a good time to go back to Canada. He hadn't planned on retiring for a while yet, but if it was either that or suicide by stupidity he'd take the retirement option. Jonathan had admitted he wouldn't be able to disappear on his own, therefore he'd never get across the border, _therefore_ he could do that and never see Jonathan again.

 _But I do want to see Jonathan again ,_ he thought to himself for some reason.

 _Seeing him again is a death sentence. And he doesn't want to see you anyway._

 _Would it really hurt to check?_

 _Yes,_ answered both Edward and whomever he was arguing with. Maybe it was himself. Who knew at this point. It didn't really matter, because he had to bounce all of this off of _somebody_ and he was the only one available. Besides. He always had the best ideas, so asking himself for advice was really quite clever.

 _The problem with this is that you took your problems, handed them off to Jonathan, and disappeared. That's just_ rude _._

 _It is,_ Edward had to agree.

 _I thought you were supposed to be a gentleman._

 _I am!_

 _That's not what a polite, upstanding man would do. That's the act of a coward._

 _Maybe not a –_

 _A_ coward.

Edward threw his screwdriver across the room without thinking about it and lay back on the floor. His glasses went to an empty space on his left and his hands atop his eyes. God, he was tired. Was this whole thing some sort of dream, and he was in the basement under some sort of –

 _You're absolving responsibility again._

He sort of wished his inner thoughts weren't as smart as he was. _What do I do, then? I can't stay here. Sooner or later I'll be found, whether by him or the Bat, and if it's the Bat we'll be seeing each other in our cell soon enough. And that only results in torture and death for me. I_ could _run._

 _Running is what caused this problem in the first place. Running, as well as…_

He frowned at his palms. _As well as what._

 _Why else are you here right now, asking yourself these questions? Why did you leave in the first place?_

 _I… convinced myself staying was a bad idea._

 _By…_

 _By… connecting Jonathan to my father. And…_

His imaginary conversational partner somehow remained silent and yet helpfully supportive. He was almost positive he was hallucinating at this point. When had he last had something to drink? It had –

 _That can wait._

He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

 _Well, you saw how he was. Suspiciously nice and helpful after intoxicating me like that._

 _You asked him to do that. He was doing you a favour, and another by helping you afterward. By volunteering to help you at all in the first place. Wasn't that what you wanted?_

 _I…_ It was, yes.

 _So when someone gave you what you wanted – finally, finally gave you what you wanted – you declared them suspicious, decided they were displaying behaviours akin to your fathers' which they could not possibly have known about, and declared all of their hard work moot by saying –_

 _I know what I said._ And what he'd said was stupid. Jonathan _had_ deserved an explanation. Jonathan had done things for Edward he'd never before done for anyone, and Edward had done the equivalent of declaring it not good enough and vanishing into the night without so much as a thank you.

He actually felt… _guilty_ for that.

 _So what are you going to do._

 _I know what I_ should _do. But that's suicide._

 _You're not prepared to leave the country right now. Not even the state._

No, he couldn't drop everything and leave. There were too many strings that hadn't yet been picked up. He didn't think he could even afford it at the moment; a good portion of his money was tied up in investments and such. And besides that… he didn't want to. Because there was another thing he had been trying not to think about, which now came back in force with the thought of continuing to run.

He missed Jonathan.

He _would_ like to bring Jonathan here. Jonathan wouldn't understand a damn thing, but God! when was the last time someone had expressed _interest_ in what he did? He could have been lying, of course, but Edward didn't think Jonathan was a liar, not at all. Not when the truth held so much more weight. And he hadn't really slept alone for _months_ now. That was probably why he wasn't sleeping well. He was alone here, his security quite rudimentary, and Jonathan was spindly and strong only of the mind but Edward still felt uniquely safe with him. It was as though he knew how to hold off the world, and he would do so for Edward until he learned how himself. He missed that part of it too: the knowing there was someone, anyone he could learn from that he could also _respect_. And above all, he wanted that back. He probably couldn't have it. Jonathan did not give the impression of a forgiving man. But maybe, just maybe, if Edward did try for it… he would get some of the respect back he had lost for himself.

Jonathan had done a great deal for him, both purposely and by associating with him at all, and he had deeply disrespected Jonathan in return. Not only a coward, but amazingly, astoundingly selfish as well.

That was no surprise to him, no surprise at all. But this was low, even for him. Lower than he'd ever imagined going. And if he didn't fix this, and he chose to run away, he would _be_ Jonathan in the future. Bitter, dissatisfied. Kept lively by that one constant throughout his life. It wasn't anything he wanted for himself. He did not want that at all. Edward didn't know how this was going to turn out, but he did know one thing: Jonathan deserved an apology. And his explanation, if he would hear it.

He sat up and fished in his waistcoat pocket for his handkerchief, to wipe the grime off his glasses with. He didn't know why he hadn't been taking better care of them; they were very expensive.

Very well. He was going to do it. He was going to go and own up to this, and he was going to take the consequences instead of running away and adding this problem onto the pile he already had amassed. But of course, just _how_ many times could he do _that_ before his problems overwhelmed him? He felt tired from all of this introspection, but relieved he'd made a decision. He didn't _like_ the decision, but it wasn't about what he _liked_ , was it.

For once, it wasn't.

* * *

He was beginning to feel he should have brought his cane to defend himself with. Jonathan would be angry, and perhaps looking to induce a fight. He wasn't sure. Maybe he'd just inject Edward the second he saw him, Edward would fall down the stairs and break his neck, and that would be that. He took a long breath, letting it out through his nose. Jonathan was an extremely helpful ally but also an incredibly terrifying enemy. Jonathan, Edward fully believed, would do the very worst of things to someone who wronged him. If Edward so much as lived through this apology he should count himself a lucky man.

He stood at Jonathan's door for about twenty minutes, listening and hoping Jonathan wasn't home so he could put this off a little longer. What did he do _now_? Did he see if the door was unlocked? Did he pick the lock, were it in use? Should he tap on the door? Go around through the front, see if the upstairs tenants were more likely to let him in?

Only one of those options gave Jonathan the choice and took it from Edward, so that's the one he selected. He knocked.

He didn't have time to blink in the space it took Jonathan to open the door and pin him up against the jamb. Had Jonathan known he was there the entire time? Maybe. Edward hadn't exactly been hiding.

Edward's head was tipped back at a very uncomfortable angle, but he did not at all want to move. He had to play this carefully or he was going to end up on the floor screaming. As it was, breathing was difficult with his throat forcibly closed most of the way and his pulse seeming to take up the rest of that space.

"Give me one reason not to," Jonathan said, and he almost seemed to be surrounded by some aura of cold darkness. His voice, though low, seemed to echo ominously in the room around them. His glasses were cold, opaque circles.

"I was wrong," Edward told him. His neck was starting to hurt badly now. "I was wrong and I'm… I'm sorry."

Jonathan stepped back and Edward rubbed at the back of his neck, wincing. He noted while his head was in that direction that the gauntlet did not actually have any toxin in the chambers. Jonathan had been relying on pure skill alone to keep any intruders at bay.

Edward had no doubt that would have been enough.

"So you've decided to take me back, is that it?" Jonathan snapped. "Did you become bored of hearing your voice bounce against an empty wall?"

"It was the other way around, actually," Edward told him, and he knew he should back that up by actually looking at him but he couldn't just yet. He could see in the space beyond Jonathan that the bed was unmade, the sheet a crumpled mess on the floor where Jonathan must have shoved it off that morning. "I know all of this is my fault. I know that. You were right. And in addition to that, I was… stupid. I always avoid things I… dislike, and I… I was foolish to walk away after you made me realise things I… probably should have noticed a long time ago. And it was really not fair to hold you accountable for my belief that you would recreate situations you have no knowledge of. I understand if you want me to leave again. And I will, if that's what you want. I just… thought we could… I could do better. If you'd let me." The last part stung horribly to say, but he had to. He had to acknowledge the power Jonathan held now, and manipulate as little as possible. And Jonathan had to know that he was actively handing over the reins. It jarred him greatly, but he had to.

Jonathan exhaled heavily and walked back into the basement. He sat down at the table, putting the gauntlet atop it with scarcely a sound and pressed a nearby book into his lap. "Should I?"

"No," Edward answered, because while it was not the one he wanted to give, it was the honest one. "You shouldn't."

"I certainly don't want to," Jonathan told him, crossing his arms and sitting back in the chair. "You're selfish, and petty, and horrifically short-sighted about yourself. You _never_ shut up and you are the biggest pain in my ass I have ever had cause to have. I despise you. I really do."

It was not looking good, but he could still salvage this. He could. All he had to do was –

No. He _could_ talk Jonathan into it, if he wanted to, but that was wrong. Jonathan deserved better and they both knew it. Jonathan already knew what he wanted to do; he had doubtless been turning it over and over in his mind these past days. Edward just had to listen. As he should have listened before.

"And I am angry," Jonathan continued. "I am angry that you were so focused on yourself – which you still are, by the way – that you were willing to disregard everything I put into it. It was just as hard for me as it was for you, and you disrespected me in favour of yourself. That cannot happen. There must be a middle ground."

Regardless, Edward couldn't help but feel hopeful. It didn't sound like Jonathan was going to throw him back out, nor kill him; it sounded more like Jonathan was outlining what he should be doing better. And while that thought irked him, that didn't stop it from being true.

Jonathan sighed.

"But I knew all of that from the beginning. Who you were and what you were like. I knew that. And when the initial annoyance and thoughts of breaking you wore off, I have to admit: I wanted to change you. I wanted to take you and mold you, make you stronger than you'd ever been or ever would be on your own. And I got what I wanted, though without considering that perhaps you didn't want it. I should have considered that you would push back once I had uncovered what really drove your behaviour. That was short-sighted on my part." He unfolded his arms and clasped his hands together instead, braced on the table. "I say this because… it was not solely your fault. I had been directing you to that end and was not prepared for any consequence other than the one I had imagined. You're not off the hook. But it is unreasonable to expect you to take responsibility for something we had equal part in."

Edward crossed the room, seating himself on the table in front of Jonathan. He had to push aside some things to make space, but Jonathan had no organisation for his papers anyway. "So you forgive me?"

"No," Jonathan said, and he looked very tired. "I don't. Regardless of what I did, you still disrespected me in such a way that I really should kill you for. It took a damned lot to get to this point with you. I deserved an explanation."

"You did," Edward agreed. "But I obviously didn't have one because it wasn't what I _actually_ wanted."

"You just made that up."

"Does it stop it from being true?"

Jonathan almost smiled, and his fist curled against the table in excitement. Yes! All was not lost!

"I suppose not."

"So you _will_ come around – "

He was unable to finish because just as he leaned forward for emphasis, the table collapsed underneath him, and there was an alarming amount of crashing noise as he leaned away from all the glass on instinct. He was left hanging onto one side of the table, eyeing the mess of papers and glass in between the splintered halves of wood, and Jonathan started laughing. Edward let out the breath he'd been holding and looked up at him. He let out the breath he'd been holding.

"… you don't seem mad."

"No," Jonathan said, though he did lean over and retrieve the gauntlet from the mess. "I would have been, if that experiment had worked out. Or perhaps not, because it would have been working on you. And that would have been amusing, no doubt."

Edward climbed out of the mess and, frowning, turned up the half of the table nearest to inspect the underside. It had been rotten almost through from bottom to top. He dropped it in disgust. "Where in the hell did you _get_ this table?"

Jonathan shrugged. "Someone was throwing it out." He was already more involved in his book than anything Edward was doing.

Edward had known he was cheap, but not _that_ cheap.

"You must be kidding."

"Not at all."

He rolled his eyes and surveyed the mess. None of the equipment itself was broken; some of Jonathan's numerous coffee cups were but most of those had been cracked extensively to begin with. He moved what could be used still on the kitchen counter and shoved the rest of it into a pile with his foot to be swept up later. Jonathan doubtless owned nothing to clean with – he washed the dishes with facecloths before Edward came along, for goodness sake! – and Edward was going to have to bring his own equipment back from his property in order to take care of the mess.

"Put coffee on for me while you're over there, will you?" Jonathan said not at all in his direction, and Edward was very close to snapping at him before he forced himself to stop and reevaluate the request. It was not that outlandish and would take Edward a minute or so at the most. He was also annoyed with Jonathan for not helping him clear up the mess, and he had to tell himself continually every few seconds that it was not Jonathan's problem at all and so his sitting there reading his book was entirely justified, not that it really needed to be.

He did as Jonathan asked and then picked up one half of the broken table. It wasn't very heavy, but he did not want any of that crumbling wood to come off on his clothes if he could help it. He threw it out the back door and called behind him, "Jonathan!"

"Mm."

"Do you want the coffee now or when I get back?"

"What coffee?"

Edward tried very hard to keep in mind that Jonathan had very generously forgiven him as he pressed his thumb and index finger into his forehead. "You asked me to put coffee on."

"When you return is fine."

He probably would not have noticed Edward was leaving if he hadn't brought it up.

Edward brought out the other half of the table on his way out and took the pieces into the alley to rest with the other melting garbage bags that sat there. Possibly that was where Jonathan had gotten it from in the first place.

Now. Jonathan was going to need a new table and Edward knew _just_ where to get it from…

 **Author's note**

 **By request from an anon, no, I am not planning on picking up on LaaC right now. Maybe one day, but not in the near future.**

 **Moving on:**

 **You were probably expecting Jonathan to slay Edward on the spot, but no. There's a few reasons he didn't. One being that he has the maturity to recognise and admit that Edward will never be the sole cause of any issues in their relationship. The responsibility for happenings will always be shared. Secondly, Edward's paranoia the day he left was partially due the fear toxin and it wasn't completely in his power how to react, but I couldn't fit it in there without making Jonathan's monologue mean a bit less. Thirdly, this is very early in Jonathan's career as the Scarecrow and he's bitter towards people still, but nowhere near the level he becomes later on. He has the desires to be vindictive and spiteful but he doesn't act on them as often. Jonathan will talk about this a bit more in the next chapter but this note is to make clear that there is reasoning as to why Jonathan made the decision he did.**


	15. Part the Fifteenth

Part the Fifteenth

"Where on earth did you get that?"

Edward paused in the act of screwing the legs to the bottom of the table he had brought in a few minutes prior. "I made it."

Jonathan looked in the direction of the back door as though it would provide him with answers Edward couldn't. "Just now?"

"Mmhm." He'd had an appropriately sized piece of wood lying around and sanding it had actually helped calm him down. It was a big part of why he enjoyed building things so much: everything had a pattern to follow and a place to be, and working those out as well as putting them into practice was soothing. He felt much calmer and more hopeful that Jonathan wasn't stringing him along for fun.

"It doesn't look like something you would build," Jonathan continued. "It's... plain."

"I wasn't aware you cared about aesthetics, Jonathan," Edward said dryly as he started rolling the table over. It was made of solid wood and so was quite heavy, and he was tired from the past few days and carrying the thing there both. "It was just going to be a temporary table. That's why." He then set to replacing everything on the table the way Jonathan had had it before Edward had... slipped.

"I don't," Jonathan said. "Not as it pertains to furniture, anyway. You still haven't made my coffee."

"I'm getting there." In truth, it had slipped his mind. He would have remembered soon enough, given that all Jonathan's things were piled on the kitchen counter, but now he was irritated with himself for not remembering when he'd gotten there in the first place.

He poured some into the cleanest cup he could find and handed it off before continuing. The table, though indeed very simple, was sturdy and well-made if he did say so himself! Once he had finished he retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator and drank most of it. Cold water was something he didn't have back at his property. Only one of the generators was hooked up, and all of the voltage was needed for the floor.

"What did you do to it," Jonathan said in confusion, and Edward saw that he was holding the cup away from him in a suspicious sort of way. "It doesn't taste right."

"Is it better or worse?"

"Better... but -"

"It's either the water or the coffee itself," Edward interrupted. "I saw you were running low so I got you... well, not the cheapest one at the bulk store. It could have been that or the fact that I used bottled water."

"That seems... ridiculous," Jonathan said, taking a drink.

"Not at all," Edward told him, deciding to finish the water instead of put a mostly empty bottle into the fridge again. One could hardly drink too much water after exerting oneself, after all. "This is Gotham, Jonathan. People plot to poison the water supply all the time. That's not the way I want to go out. I avoid drinking any water gathered in this state if at all possible."

Jonathan was still looking at his book, but his eyes were attentive. "That's a good point," he murmured.

"I know. I'll be back. I need a shower." He needed about six showers and a full-body exfoliation, but just the one shower was going to have to do it.

"Do something about your face while you're there."

"Excuse me?" Edward said indignantly. Okay fine, so he'd been a jerk, but _that_ was out of line!

"Your face. You need to shave."

"Oh." He couldn't deny the truth of that. "Yes. I... didn't know you cared."

"You're... soft," Jonathan said, and he waved his hand vaguely. "And you have good facial structure. Both of those things are negated when you don't shave."

So... what Jonathan was _really_ saying was that he was handsome! But moreso when he shaved. Well, Edward was of the same mind about _that_. He arranged the papers back on the table approximately the way they'd been and headed upstairs.

Everything seemed to be right again and he was very, very relieved.

* * *

When he came back downstairs he was starving, but a search of the kitchen revealed nothing to eat other than a box of plain crackers and a can of creamed corn that was from four years prior. He made a face.

"Why do you have nothing to eat, Jonathan?"

"Because I didn't buy anything." He scratched the side of his nose. "Are you making food?"

"I would if you had any." Even _he_ couldn't make miracles with what was in the cupboard. "You were just living on crackers while I was gone?"

Jonathan turned a page in his book. "It wouldn't be the first time."

Edward wanted to sigh, roll his eyes, and smack himself in the face all at once.

"Fine, fine. I'll take care of that too."

"You _are_ better at it than me."

"Really?" Was he just being unconscionably nice again?

"To a point. However."

"What." He walked into the foyer to retrieve his coat. He had left his wallet in there, which was perhaps not the smartest thing to do, but it was certainly the most convenient.

"I do open a mean pack of crackers."

Edward couldn't hang onto his wallet because he was laughing so hard. When he was able to take a full breath again he said, leaning over to pick up his dropped article, "You're hilarious, you know that?"

"I was aware of this but have not been told by anyone before." He wrote something on what seemed to be a legal pad and turned a page in his book. "I like this table, by the way."

Edward found himself beaming as he shrugged on his coat. Maybe Jonathan _said_ he hadn't been forgiven, but he sure _felt_ as though he had been. "I'm glad."

"It's very sturdy. Unlike the other table. I was waiting for its imminent collapse."

Edward frowned at the turn in conversation. "Yes, well, I didn't know that."

"I doubt it will teach you your ass doesn't belong on the table, either."

"It _does_ belong on the table!" How _else_ was he to get the height advantage?

"For a man who's leaving, you seem to be staying an awfully long time."

"I… I'll still be welcome to come back?" he said hesitantly. He wasn't sure why. Everything was all right, wasn't it? Or was he just looking for proof?

Jonathan looked up. Solemnly. Oh, damn. He had done it. He shouldn't have asked. He'd given space to say no, he'd –

"Yes," Jonathan said.

Edward resumed breathing and tucked his head into his hat, intending to bow out before he said something else incredibly stupid. Christ, he was an insecure little bastard sometimes. He opened the door and was about to step out when Jonathan called, "Edward?"

Shit. The other shoe was about to fall.

"Mm?"

"I need pens."

Oh.

"Uh… sure. What colour?"

Jonathan snorted. "Why should I care? They're just pens. I'm not going to decorate with them."

"I meant… ink, Jonathan." Though come to think of it, he probably didn't care about that either.

"Oh. Black, I suppose."

"All right. Be back in a bit."

And he would be back. He would. Jonathan had let him come back. Jonathan had given him something to come back _to_.

He couldn't stop smiling to himself and he didn't bother to try.

* * *

His trip took him about an hour and when he returned he set to making the food immediately. Pizza pockets and baby carrots did not provide all that much energy to live off, let alone thrive from, and he believed he was thinking a little more slowly than usual. That was a little hard to tell.

He had no idea if Jonathan would like it or not – he hoped he would – but he wasn't going to ask right now. Jonathan was sitting where Edward had left him, head firmly braced with spread fingers , pen limp in the other hand as he frowned down at the paper in front of him. No, Edward wasn't going to bother him right now. He had to treat his position as tenuous.

His meal was complete inside half an hour; he'd made it dozens of times and knew all the shortcuts. It was a salsa and chicken mix, baked inside of biscuits with just a little bit of fresh mozzarella. He was quite good at cooking, if he did say so himself. After his trip down the country and subsequent settling in Gotham, he had set himself towards learning to do so as soon as he had the equipment required. It was not only an invaluable life skill, but something that any woman could appreciate. He'd also discovered that he tended to prefer women who accepted his offer for dinner at his apartment than women who liked restaurants. He always made quite clear when offering that it was merely to demonstrate he could in fact cook, and not for any other reason, but sometimes they _did_ stay on their own suggestion. He certainly was not going to argue about _that_.

That had all been… a long time ago. He felt a little wistful, thinking about it. Everything had been simpler back then. Get in his application for the GCPD as a stepping stone for a career at the FBI. Find some pretty, thoughtful girl to ward off the loneliness. Hack into Gotham's First National, steal a dollar from everyone's bank account, and disguise it as a service fee because the GCPD did not pay according to the lifestyle he deserved. Build that computer he'd always wanted. Locate a friendly manicurist of some quality. All the usual things a young man did when setting the foundations for his life.

He tapped his fingers on the mustard-coloured stovetop. It was not supposed to be that shade of yellow. He wanted to clean it. Needed to.

Sometimes he thought he knew where things had gone out of line, and then he would lose it. Or perhaps he did know, and always knew, but it was better not to think about it. He couldn't change it now.

Just then the oven timer went off and he exhaled in relief. Jonathan had neither oven mitts nor dish towels, so Edward was forced to remove the pan with a towel from the bathroom. He needed to get some dish towels at the very least. Or a new drying rack. Jonathan's was somehow orange with rust, and the rubber base was cracked and peeling. It was sad, Edward decided as he pulled Jonathan's largest bowl out of the cupboard with which to mix a quick salad, that Jonathan's personal neglect showed in everything he did and yet no one had ever noticed. Or perhaps they had, and had ignored it. That seemed more likely.

But whose fault was that? Edward asked himself as he removed the salad mix from the refrigerator. He remembered everything Jonathan had said about his personal history, but Jonathan didn't want to talk about it. Jonathan didn't want to fix it. Jonathan wanted to ignore it and pretend it never happened.

Edward put the bowl down and looked across the room at him, still frowning at his papers as though they were never going to make sense, and they probably wouldn't. Edward wasn't sure what Jonathan was looking for, but he wasn't going to find it that way.

He could find out what Jonathan was looking for. Help him find it. He'd have to be covert about it, because Jonathan would balk at such a thing, but that was sort of the point. It needed to be done, but he wasn't doing it. He was just allowing it to worsen. And it was so _blatant,_ so _obvious_. In the way he lived, in the state of his belongings, in the way he evaluated _everything_ to the core before deciding if it was worth the effort. And he was good at that last part, because it could be seen as careful observation, intelligence, a subset of his career. All of those things were true. And they were also barriers. To keep everyone out.

To keep himself in.

Edward closed the package of tossed greens slowly and wondered why he hadn't thought this through before. He'd touched on it, certainly. But it was so _obvious._

 _You were selfish._

It was true. He returned the container to the refrigerator and took up the bottle of sundried tomato vinaigrette. He had been torn between that and the raspberry, but ultimately decided some people did not enjoy fruit on their salad.

The problem was, he thought to himself as he mixed, that with _people_ you never knew whether you were being helpful or selfish. How was he honestly, truly to know he was doing something for Jonathan and not for himself? Clearing up, preparing things, even _talking_ , all of that directly benefited Edward himself, not solely Jonathan. How was he supposed to know if doing something about the mess that was Jonathan's kitchen was for Jonathan or himself? Jonathan wasn't going to do it because Jonathan for some reason believed there was nothing wrong with it, but it was Edward who was bothered.

Christ, what a complicated relationship. He pushed two fingers beneath his glasses and rubbed at his right eye. He was tired because of this already and he hadn't even done anything other than throw a few fits and almost get himself killed. But he should have known it wouldn't have been easy. They were both similar, and that was part of the draw. What Edward needed, Jonathan was going to need some variation of. He just wasn't going to tell Edward about it.

He shrugged. He'd find out eventually!

He divided the food onto plates and cleared the table a little so he could place it. Jonathan didn't acknowledge him in the slightest, though when Edward returned to the table a second time with two glasses of water he did see Jonathan take notice of the food. He ignored that like he was supposed to and put his attention to his own.

It didn't take long for Edward to clear his plate, due his hunger, but that only put him in a bit of a position for this next part. He wanted to ask Jonathan something, but Jonathan ate a great deal more slowly. How to… aha. The dishes. He'd do them and perhaps Jonathan would be finished then.

Jonathan got up when he was halfway finished in order to pour himself more coffee, and Edward was unsure now if Jonathan was ignoring him on purpose or if he was just that involved in his papers. He couldn't be, though; if he were, he wouldn't have gotten up. Well, he didn't want it to look like he'd been _waiting_ for Jonathan to do that. He'd finish the dishes and then put forward his proposition.

Still. No need to rush.

After he'd spread Jonathan's cups across the counter, upside down on a collection of bath towels, he chewed his tongue and turned the kettle on. Why was he so nervous? It wasn't an outrageous request. Maybe it was a little selfish. But staring at books all the time wasn't good for anybody. Being engrossed in only one thing caused the mind to stagnate, _this_ Edward firmly believed. A little selfish, yes. But what _couldn't_ be written off as such?

He finished making his tea and walked over to the table with it, the handle grasped perhaps a little too tightly. Jonathan took no notice of him.

"I'm… going to sit outside for a bit," Edward said hesitantly. Jonathan didn't move.

Damn. This was more awkward than it was supposed to be.

"I thought you could… come with me."

Jonathan looked up now, frowning. "Why? If something out there frightens you – "

"No," Edward interrupted, before he looked _really_ ridiculous for asking. "I just… thought it would be nice to spend some time together. After…"

Jonathan looked back down at his paperwork, and Edward knew he was not owed anything but still he felt upset by this. He took a breath and turned around. He'd tried. It hadn't worked. Time to move on, and consider -

"All right," Jonathan said. He stood slowly, taking his cup from the top instead of the handle. He crossed the floor and the two of them moved through the back door and sat on the steps behind the house, Edward on the right and Jonathan the left. Edward gripped his drink with force. There was a tension between them, as though they were strangers. Two people who had the impression of familiarity but did not know each other at all. It scared him a little to think he would have to start over again.

Sometimes his ideas, while indisputably brilliant, were not that well thought out, and this seemed to be one of those.

"What's that you're drinking," Jonathan said finally, not that it really alleviated the tension. Edward looked back down into the cup, as though he'd forgotten what was in there. He hadn't, of course.

"Green tea," he answered, and Jonathan shook his head.

"Really."

"It has numerous health benefits!" Edward protested. Actually, he had meant to make the peppermint – he found it more relaxing in the evening – but he had been a little… preoccupied at the time.

"Does it now." Jonathan took a long drink of his coffee, but Edward didn't think he actually wanted him to extol the virtues of green tea and so they lapsed into silence again.

This had been a stupid idea and he regretted bringing it up. He should have just gone out on his own. Jonathan was stringing him along. He was probably going to murder Edward in his sleep with some fatal dose of fear toxin.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Jonathan said. "I knew you would be back and I intended entirely to kill you when you got here."

Edward stared at him.

… he couldn't _read minds,_ could he?

Jonathan was tapping the side of his cup with a spindly index finger. "Nobody does something like that to me and just walks away. It was the most foolish thing you ever did."

"So… you're saving the killing part for some other time." Dammit. He had no doubt Jonathan would track him to the ends of the earth to enact his vengeance. Edward certainly would have, though for different reasons.

"No. You did something I wasn't expecting. You apologised." Jonathan met his eyes now. "I believed you would return and attempt to wave it under the rug, so to speak, and pretend it had never happened. That you had spent the past days convincing yourself you were the real victim. That's what you usually do."

He was becoming very uncomfortable and yet something compelled him to keep from looking away. Jonathan spoke again.

"Why?"

He put the cup aside because he needed to knot his fingers together. He looked at them now. Jonathan's eyes had become too inquisitive.

"Edward."

He pushed one hand into his hair. He didn't want to talk about this. He hated admitting he was wrong. He hated elaborating on why even more. "Because I was being stupid."

"That's not a reason."

He was pressing his glasses into his face now and it was going to leave a mark on his nose, but right now he didn't care. He was positively _squirming_ on the inside. Why was Jonathan bothering him about it? Why couldn't they just move on? Edward had apologised and Jonathan had accepted it. What was with all the inquiry?

"That's not a reason, Edward," Jonathan repeated, more insistently. "That's you trying to make me feel sorry for you by insulting yourself. It's not going to work. I don't feel sorry for you at all. Why did you apologise to me?"

He closed his eyes.

"Because… it wasn't fair."

He doubted Jonathan would allow him to leave it at that, but he wasn't sure how he wanted to continue. He took a drink in order to buy a few seconds to think.

"I… led you to think you could depend on me, and I let you down." Jonathan was still going to kill him, wasn't he. "Even for me, that… that was low."

"You got scared," Jonathan said softly. "No one has ever done that before."

Edward looked in as opposite a direction from Jonathan as possible.

"You know things about me that I don't know. That's… con – "

"Oh, you know about them," Jonathan interrupted. "But you see everything in terms of what you can accept and what you cannot. I know nothing about you that you don't know about yourself. All I do is speak of things you do not want to be true. But that is going to happen when two people come to know each other. You can't run every time that happens."

"It makes me pathetic, I know," Edward mumbled. That was nothing new; it had been happening since he was a child, after all.

"No," Jonathan said. "It makes you young. You want to believe you have the world and yourself worked out and finding out you don't frightens you. It's merely the way the mind works. You'll get there." He touched Edward's hunched shoulder, startling him. "I said I would help you, and I am willing to if you are."

God, he hated the implication that he needed to be _fixed_.

 _But you do need to be fixed. You know that. You were never supposed to end up here. Things were supposed to be different._

 _I'm fine. I don't need help._

 _That's a lie and you know it. There's not a time in your life you didn't need help._

"You've never been in a long-term relationship before, have you. As a friend or otherwise."

"Of course I have!"

That, too, was a lie, but he needed to save face, didn't he?

Jonathan sighed. When Edward glanced at him he saw that Jonathan was pinching the bridge of his nose with a lot of force.

"Please. Just tell me the truth. That's all I ask. Wresting it from you is exhausting."

He wrapped his arms around himself. "Well… maybe not… _that_ long-term."

"You're the only one I know more afraid of commitment than they are of me. Look. All I ask for is to be treated with honesty and respect. If you are having an issue, _tell me._ Lack of communication is our only barrier. And I do not have the patience nor the time to get you to do so by force. You need to trust me. Or it's going to be I who walks away."

He swallowed back the sudden apprehension in his throat. What a mess.

"I'm not trying to threaten you," Jonathan said, more softly. "I'm just saying what I have always said. But I tire of chasing you. You need to consider your actions a little more carefully. You walking away left me with a lot of things that I never wanted to feel. That I put myself at risk for, for you. All of your decisions about this affect me. You need to start considering that."

Edward nodded in answer. He was right. Again. Edward was selfish, and so was Jonathan, the difference being that Jonathan was willing to wait for his returns and Edward was… less so. Jonathan could teach him that, maybe. Patience.

He did his best to breathe normally. His first instinct was to get up, to demand that Jonathan stop threatening him and backing him into a corner… but that wasn't what Jonathan was doing. Jonathan was, as he'd said, merely restating the same things over and over again in an attempt to drill them into Edward's resistant mind.

"I'll do better," he said quietly.

"I hope so," was Jonathan's answer. "We never did enact that world-changing scheme of yours."

Edward had to smile at that. "I have to think of it first."

The tension had more or less gone, though Edward was still apprehensive of it all. How much of a mistake would cause Jonathan to call it all off? Edward, now truly faced with that possibility, realised how much he did not want that. Jonathan was a good friend. Better than any he'd ever had. Too good to lose over his own insecurities. He really did need to do better.

They both stood, Edward taking Jonathan's cup so that he wouldn't leave it someplace before Edward had a chance to clean it. He had to yawn into his elbow.

"Going to bed, then," Jonathan said, and oddly he was still standing there as though he were waiting for Edward to go first. Normally he just came and went as he pleased. Edward nodded.

"Been a rough few days, but you knew that."

Neither of them moved, and Edward was trying to figure out what it was Jonathan wanted when he seemed to decide against it and turned away. Edward frowned.

"What."

"Nothing. I've changed my mind."

"What was it, then?"

"Nothing." But now he had stopped again, which indicated quite blatantly that was not the case.

"We can do this all night or you can just tell me what it is."

"I was going to… offer a hug, before you went to bed. I won't be along until you're asleep."

Edward nearly dropped the cups in his hand. "Really?"

"Yes. I have work to do." He was looking studiously at the door handle, as though planning his escape.

"No, not that. Hug me whenever you want." He leaned over enough to put the dishes down. "Here." And he wrapped his arms around Jonathan.

Jonathan remained stiff and still, uneasy, and it was honestly the most awkward thing to happen in the past few days. He didn't want to stand there for too much longer without reciprocation, but just as he was about to back off Jonathan did move. It took him about half a minute to slowly press his arms into Edward's back, as though they were magnetically repelled and he had to force them into place. The following thirty seconds were just as painful until it really hit Edward what was going on… and _that_ was when he realised his breath had gone uneven and he had practically attached himself to Jonathan's body with the force he was suddenly applying. And… God, his eyes _were_ wet! He was being _so stupid_ , falling apart over –

Oh, but it had been _so long_. And it felt good. It felt better than anything had in a long time. He didn't want to let go, not ever. He wanted this feeling to last. Forever.

Jonathan's hand was in the back of his hair.

Maybe he didn't want to let go either. Maybe he felt the same. If Edward could have pressed any harder, he would have.

Jonathan had _never_ had this. Edward had had relationships, many of them, but Jonathan had had none. He was reminded – and he _had_ forgotten – that so much of what they did was Jonathan's sole exposure to it.

"I'm sorry," he found himself whispering, without ever thinking of doing so. "I'm sorry I left, I was wrong – "

"You already apologised," Jonathan said, quiet but firm. "It's over. We're not talking about it anymore. You need to start letting go of these things."

He was right, of course. Always, always right.

When he was sure he had himself under control he did let go, and Jonathan did not seem reluctant to do so but he was good at masking his true thoughts. Edward picked up the cups without a word and held the door open for Jonathan to follow.

He put away the dishes in silence. He was now more exhausted than before and, worse, emotionally drained. Who knew a hug would be so taxing? Jonathan was equally uneasy about it all; he knew this because he was sitting in the one chair that he could not see the kitchen from, which he never did.

What a pair they were.

Edward stripped to his underclothes once he'd cleaned up the kitchen, climbed into the bed and pulled the sheet over himself, wincing a little in relief. Jonathan's mattress was in as much disrepair as everything else he owned, but it was much, much more comfortable than the floor Edward had been collapsing on. Well, maybe not to that high of a degree, as it would be just as uncomfortable tomorrow as it had been the first time Edward had lain on it. For now, it was the best mattress in the world.


	16. Part the Sixteenth

Part the Sixteenth

Before we begin, I would like to show you guys some fanart I was drawn... a few months ago now:

Link

When he woke it was still dark, the room drenched in cool shadow, and when he squinted in the direction of the table he could not pick out Jonathan. He looked to his right to find him on the bed, against the wall as usual, propped against the bookcase behind them and one leg bent. And he looked so… content. Relaxed, in a way Edward had never seen before. Almost exquisite, even. Maybe Edward was hallucinating on the edge of interrupted sleep – which wasn't out of the question – but still he couldn't deny the urge to reach out and lay one of his hands alongside his face…

Jonathan's eyes caught what scarce light there was and reflected it back at him. "What," he said, his voice thick and low.

"Nothing," Edward said, startled. "I… you looked… peaceful, that's all, I… thought I was seeing things."

Jonathan stretched and in doing so audibly worked out some kink in his back. He slid onto his side and closed his eyes again. He either didn't know what to say to that or was too tired to get into it just then. Edward didn't really care. He was just thankful Jonathan wasn't angry about it.

He stared up at the ceiling and wondered if he could… borrow Jonathan's hand until morning.

He took Jonathan's hand.

Jonathan let go almost immediately and Edward folded his arms across his chest instead. Damn. Unfortunately the ceiling held no hints on how he was going to fix this one.

Jonathan laughed and Edward squinted at him from the edge of his vision. "What."

"Eddie, I was joking. You are quite fun, you know."

Edward threw his arms up in the direction of the ceiling but did not have anything to counter that with.

Hm. Actually, maybe he did... he yawned without having to fake it and rolled into Jonathan, draping an arm over him. Jonathan's amusement was palpable.

"I can't help but notice you're still wearing your shirt."

"Hm?" he said into the wrinkles of Jonathan's own. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"That's why you're awake, isn't it? You were too warm."

He debated whether or not to rework that into a statement about his appearance and decided against. He just wanted to sleep again, really. And that sounded like a plausible explanation for why he wasn't – his pants _were_ sticking to his legs rather uncomfortably - though Jonathan's concern for his wellbeing nearly always had some underlying reasoning. He clenched his teeth when he figured it out. "You just want to touch the scars on my back."

"Yes," Jonathan said simply. "They tell part of your story, after all, and you do know that I like to read."

He sat up.

"How long have you been waiting to use that one for," he asked, laughing a little.

"A while," Jonathan answered.

"You know that was incredibly corny."

"Oh, you liked it," Jonathan scoffed. "Corny, yes, but it made you smile."

It had, hadn't it.

He did as Jonathan wanted and lay back down again, as close to him as possible without being on top of him. Sure enough, Jonathan's answer was to fold his arm over Edward and place one hand on his back. It felt nice enough. The part that was not nice were the memories his touch brought back up.

"This only bothers you because you allow it to," Jonathan told him, voice low. "Do something about it. You have the means and you refuse to use them."

* * *

Jonathan was still there when he woke up.

He didn't move, confused. Why was Jonathan there? Jonathan was usually long gone, back to work and finishing his third cup of coffee by the time Edward got out of bed. But not now. Now his hand rested on Edward's arm instead of on his papers.

He didn't even know why _he_ was awake. He knew well enough to tell when he'd slept sufficiently, and he had not. And he had Jonathan's attention, so… going back to sleep sounded like a good idea. It wasn't, but he needed a minute to figure out why.

Because… Jonathan had done this for him. And to go back to sleep when Jonathan probably wanted to get up, but wasn't so as to benefit him, would be selfish.

Oh, but he was still _tired_ , he shouldn't even be _awake_ yet…

But he was. He could sleep later. Jonathan was being nice for the time being. Edward didn't want to annoy him _already_.

Doing the right thing was very, very hard.

He rolled onto his back with deep reluctance and pressed one hand carelessly across his eyes before he opened them. His mouth was dry. He hadn't had enough water in days.

"Why are you here," he said, before Jonathan could make one of his cracks about Edward's sleep habits. It wasn't really his fault he needed to sleep so much anyway.

"It's cold out and you are warm," Jonathan answered. Edward's head rolled onto his shoulder so he could stare up at him.

"That's your reason for everything."

"It's quite a convenient excuse, isn't it."

His eyes were still fighting to close but he sat up, rubbing at his chest, absently recalling Jonathan's use of that same reason last night.

* * *

"Oh, there you are. I've been…" At his pause, Edward removed the hat from overtop his eyes and peered down at Jonathan. He was frowning up at the roof, one arm crossed over his ribs and the other pressing his glasses into his face.

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Sleeping."

"You've just been sleeping up there this whole time."

Edward shrugged. "Yeah. You know I haven't been doing too well on that front lately."

"All right. And what is…" He waved one finger around vaguely. "That."

Edward leaned over the side of the roof, fingers wrapped around the gutter. "My spandex?"

"I have no idea what you call it."

"Well," Edward said, crossing his legs and folding his hands into his lap, "I was thinking about what you said. When I wasn't asleep, that is. About how neither you nor I can figure out who I am without my father being… involved in some way." He reached behind him to take up the hat, the brim of which he pressed between his fingers. "And you're right. That was probably obvious, given my… reaction, so I spent a while trying to think of something I could start with. A ground zero, a square one, an origin point. And I remembered this."

"Your spandex." He was squinting up at Edward now, with a flat hand shading his eyes.

Edward nodded once. "My father would kill me if he saw me in this. Probably literally." He let himself down from the roof so that Jonathan wouldn't have to squint up into the sun and stared out into the alleyway. "It's more comfortable than it looks. Promise."

"I'll take your word for it." Jonathan folded his arms together. "I would not wear that myself."

Edward shrugged. "You don't have the body for it. Neither do I, really, but the fact that I don't care negates that fact nicely. The point being that I know that this is one thing I did just for the hell of it. It was supposed to be a joke at first, you know, all the hulks who can barely keep their eight-pack abs contained in their clothes. Comedic value aside… it grew on me."

"But you never wear it."

He folded his arms. "Can't. Not right now. I have a reputation to work on." He looked up at Jonathan, smiling. When Jonathan met his gaze he said, "With the aid of my… partner, of course."

"Ahhhh," Jonathan said, though he looked amused. " _There's_ the catch."

"Catch? What catch? Other than me, which should go without saying."

Jonathan actually laughed.

"I will admit that you are something," Jonathan said, gripping Edward's shoulder for a moment before releasing it. "What that _is_ I've yet to work out, but you are indeed something." Jonathan turned and pulled the back door open, looking over his shoulder. "Are you coming inside?"

Edward shook his head. "You need your you time and I… still have a lot to think about." He decided to sit on the stairs instead of gain the roof again. It was getting too hot up there, oddly enough.

"Oh you _do_ understand the concept of personal space. I'll make sure to note that for later, when you drape yourself on top of me unasked."

Edward smiled. "If you _truly_ had a problem with it, I imagine you'd do something about it."

"I am very good at holding grudges."

"Hey!" Edward shouted back, before Jonathan closed the door. He looked back out of it again.

"What."

"You never said if you liked it," Edward told him, gesturing to his clothes. Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

"I _don't_ like it. It's hideous. I also don't want to know how you got it on."

He'd expected that. He didn't care, really, about Jonathan's opinion – the man was a fan of wearing clothes that were literally threadbare – he had just wanted to hear him say it. He had also needed time to figure out how to word what he wanted to say next. "Jonathan."

" _What_ , Edward?"

Jonathan was getting annoyed now, but this was important. "You and I… is another thing my father would kill me for."

When he looked behind him, Jonathan was still standing there with the door open, pensively eyeing the porch in front of him. Finally he said, "Many of the people I used to know would do the same to me."

Edward stood up.

"You know what that means, don't you?"

"I'm not interested in your games right now, Edward. Nor ever, really, for future reference."

"It means," Edward said, stepping very close, "is that I need to do _this_ more often. Just to prove how much neither of us care."

"Do wh-"

He was unable to finish his question, not that it needed any other answer than what Edward was already doing: standing straight so he had reach enough to decline Jonathan's head in order to kiss him insistently. He only stopped when he started to lose his balance. Jonathan hadn't moved at all, except to increase his hold on the doorknob. That, Edward only noticed once they were apart again.

Jonathan stepped into the basement, gesturing for Edward to follow.

"What?"

"If you're just sleeping anyway you may as well do it inside. If we're being searched for, they are certainly going to take notice of you in that. They can probably see you from outer space."

"That doesn't sound like a bad thing at all," Edward said, smiling, but he did as Jonathan suggested.

"It wouldn't be," Jonathan answered, sitting back down at the table, "because perhaps some passing alien would sight you and whisk you away to your home planet. Clearly you do not belong here."

"But you told me to come back in! All _that_ means is that you'd _miss_ me if that happened." He invited himself onto the table in front of Jonathan, knocking a stack of books asunder as he did so. Jonathan closed his eyes for a long moment.

"I am already regretting it. What is _with_ your predilection for sitting _on_ tables instead of _at_ them?"

"I have the high ground, of course. Subconsciously puts me in a state of authority." He went to tap Jonathan on the nose but his wrist was caught partway there. Jonathan's stare was decidedly unamused.

"No. It doesn't."

When Jonathan released his wrist he slid off the table and crossed the room to sit on the bed. "It usually does," he said, mostly to himself.

"If I were to be roped in by such blatant attempts at manipulation you would be sorely disappointed," Jonathan said, very calmly. "I should _hardly_ wish to disappoint you."

That was true. It _would_ be extremely disappointing.

* * *

The next afternoon Edward had been taking care of the last bit of cleanup he'd needed to do while Jonathan was out doing whatever it was he did; Jonathan did not seem to mind if he did so as long as Jonathan was not around at the time. Once or twice Jonathan had actually _left_ when Edward had begun doing so, as if he knew it was something Edward needed to do, and perhaps he did. Edward didn't really want to talk about it anyway and Jonathan didn't seem inclined to force him to, and so allowing Edward to organise things the way he needed them to be was the easiest way for the both of them to deal with that problem.

While organising Jonathan's books according to binding, size, author, and colour, he came across the gun they had taken from the children inside of a desk drawer he was planning to put some unused paperwork into. He hadn't really looked at it when he'd taken it initially, and as he picked it up he was not surprised to discover it was of decent weight. Jonathan liked solid things, after all, and he was not likely to be any different about his guns.

Guns were not something Edward was educated in by any means. It seemed to be somewhat old, judging by the wear on the grip and some discolouration of the metal. It was, so far as he could tell, one of the only things Jonathan owned he bothered to take care of. It being in a drawer and not forgotten under some pile of books was telling in and of itself.

"Never held one before, have you," Jonathan said, and Edward startled and dropped it onto the desk. The collision was louder than he expected.

"Uh… no," Edward answered, it occurring to him just then that perhaps the one possession Jonathan seemed to care about was not one he should be touching. "I've only really seen them on the news."

"Mm." Jonathan placed a stack of books and file folders onto the desk and picked up the revolver, releasing the cylinder ostensibly to see if it was loaded. "Well. I've just concluded the work I wished to complete for today, and if you haven't anything to be doing I know a place I can teach you to shoot."

Edward gripped the back of the chair he was standing by at the thought of being _taught_ something by someone else. "It can't be _that_ hard," he said defensively.

"Firing a gun is easy," Jonathan said. "Hitting something a little easier. Hitting what you _want_ to hit… well, not everyone can do that."

"Are you saying I can't aim?"

"I'm offering you a chance to prove you can."

Edward bit his tongue when he realised what he'd walked into. Now he _had_ to do it. _Damn_ , Jonathan was good.

He wished that didn't thrill him so much.

"Very well," he said imperiously. "I suppose I have some time."

"Of course you do." Jonathan was looking through the drawer, some amusement present on his face. He removed a box, continuing with, "I have a vehicle but circumstances force me to keep it some distance away." And without looking he pushed the box into one pocket of his jeans, the gun still in his right hand.

They walked about two blocks in silence, Edward trying to guess what kind of vehicle, exactly, Jonathan probably had, when Jonathan came to a sudden halt in a parking lot behind what seemed to be a defunct gas station. Edward looked around in confusion. All that was there was some old pickup truck –

Ohhhh.

When Edward started laughing, Jonathan looked at him sharply. "What?" he snapped. "Were you expecting perhaps a limousine?"

"Not at all," Edward answered, shaking his head. "I should have expected _exactly_ this."

Jonathan seemed somewhat confused by that, but only continued on towards the truck. It was dusty and probably some rugged shade of blue under all the dirt; all of the metal was rusting in multiple places and the windows were clouded. Edward couldn't even use the running board to climb in on the passenger side, as it was only barely attached. The interior of the truck was not in any better condition, the fabric atop the conjoined seat all ripped up and stained with what was hopefully coffee, and somehow Edward was surprised to see there were books and papers scattered on the dashboard and the floor and inside the glove compartment. Not stepping on any of it was impossible. He stuffed as much of what was on the passenger seat out of the way as he could, grimacing. "Don't tell me you read and drive at the same time."

Jonathan shrugged, placing the gun into the compartment behind the cupholders. All three of these spaces were filled with broken pencils and pens. "Sometimes." He inserted the key into the ignition – and that's all it was, just a single key – as Edward tried in vain to buckle the seatbelt. Something was wrong with the internal mechanism and so he just gave up, folding his arms. What a _mess_ Jonathan was.

They sat in silence for about two minutes – silent beyond the loud grumbling of the badly-maintained engine, that was – and at that time Edward drew breath and asked, "How long have you had that gun?"

Jonathan didn't seem to be listening, judging by the total lack of reaction, but after a minute or so he answered, "I don't recall. Since I was a teenager, probably."

Edward had no idea how a person could just _forget_ where they'd gotten a deadly weapon from, but he knew well enough by now that was as much as he was going to get. That theory was proven wrong when Jonathan continued,

"It was in service during World War II, I remember that much. Possibly one of the houseguests left it behind in my bedroom. That's how I acquired several of my possessions."

That was incredibly depressing, and Edward sort of wished he hadn't asked. Hand-me-downs from people who were doing it by mistake. The more he learned about Jonathan's history, the more he wondered why Jonathan wasn't even _more_ bitter and distant than he already was. "Are you a good shot, then?" he asked, more to steer the conversation in a slightly better direction than anything else.

Jonathan tapped one long index finger on the steering wheel. The wheel itself was wrapped in some tattered faux-leather material, hanging in shredded tassels from the scratched plastic. "Decent, I suppose. It's been a time since I needed fire it, but I cannot imagine I am terribly out of practice."

"What did you used to shoot with it?"

"Crows," Jonathan said, and Edward decided it was a good time to stop asking questions.

Well. He had one more. One he maybe shouldn't ask, but he was going to do it anyway.

It took him a few minutes to work up the nerve to; there was one subject he absolutely _knew_ Jonathan would get angry about, if he didn't word this just right, and angering a man with a gun in arm's reach was not a clever idea. Even if he _could_ snatch it before Jonathan did, he had only the faintest idea of how to fire it.

"It's the gun I threatened that student with," Jonathan said suddenly, and Edward looked over at him in surprise. "The police confiscated it during the university's investigation, but in the one stroke of luck I've ever had I managed to steal it back before it was transported to the police station."

Edward bit his tongue, because he _really_ wanted to say that it wasn't the _only_ stroke of luck Jonathan had ever had, but now was definitely not the time.

"I don't really know why I've held onto it all these years," Jonathan continued. "I suppose I have some things yet to address. I still have this truck, after all. Moving past one's history is a process, which I will achieve in full someday."

"And your accent?" Edward ventured, unable to resist the opening. Jonathan's lips thinned.

"What about it."

Jonathan's cold, forward-directed stare was unnerving him. "Is it difficult to… to mask it?" he asked anyway. Better to ask now than to try and bring it up later.

His question went unanswered, as Jonathan merely continued driving. He pulled up in a lot behind a rather decrepit-looking warehouse and shifted the truck into park. But he didn't move, not even to disengage the engine, and Edward wondered if his question had well and ruined everything.

"When going to these sorts of places, one is supposed to bring with them protective equipment. This so happens to be an illegal range, not monitored by anybody and willingly looked past due to some bribe or another. I should still have a target or two in the glovebox."

Edward immediately set to looking into that, and Jonathan removed the key from the ignition and pocketed it. They were indeed folded deep into the back of the glove compartment, and apart from being absently folded in half the targets were in decent condition. They were old, the faded black silhouettes printed over now-yellowing paper, but as long as he could still see where to shoot Edward supposed that wasn't a terrible inconvenience. At quick count there were four of them.

As he shoved the contents of the box back into place, Jonathan climbed out of the truck and closed the door with more force than was probably necessary. Something seemed to crawl up the back of Edward's neck. He had pushed too far again.

He got out of his seat and closed his own door, albeit a lot more quietly, and joined Jonathan. He was rolling the papers up in his hand in an attempt to help convince himself that Jonathan was not just taking him into the range to shoot him where no one would particularly care, but he couldn't say it was really working. Jonathan stopped short of the door, so quickly Edward almost walked into him.

"Sometimes it's difficult," Jonathan said. "Often I feel it's getting easier, and then I realise it isn't."

Edward discovered his mouth was hanging open and immediately closed it.

"I would prefer not to talk about it again, if you don't mind." Jonathan's fingers were firmly wrapped around the discoloured door handle. Edward remembered that he needed to breathe.

"If it happens again, I won't mention it."

Jonathan paused in turning the handle, looking over his shoulder. His eyes were grim and searching, and even as Edward fought against shrinking back he couldn't deny there was a delicious thrill in being assessed by someone who actually could. This time, however, there was nothing _to_ assess. He'd said it and he'd meant it, honestly.

Finally, Jonathan nodded once and pulled open the door. "I would appreciate that."

And promptly Edward felt as though the air had been cleared between them.

Jonathan pulled open the door and Edward had to reach out quickly to catch it before it closed on him. Beyond the door was revealed a somewhat dingy space, filled mostly with lanes akin to that of a swimming pool configured for laps. At one end of each lane was a cubicle-like space of what seemed from first glance to be particleboard, some of which had additional pieces of the stuff nailed to it at about waist height to act as a shelf. Some of them, he supposed, had fallen off without replacement. At the opposite end of the lanes hung clips on which to hang the targets and the back wall had panels sloping inward to direct bullets that made it that far back down to the floor. There were three or four other people there, two of which were wearing protective equipment. Jonathan was walking down to the farthest lane and Edward only realised this as he discovered he had stopped walking. He caught up as discreetly as possible, to the final lane where Jonathan was putting the gun down on the shelf and removing the ammunition from his pocket.

"This is a double-action revolver, which means you merely have to pull the trigger to fire it. It holds six rounds but we will only load it five at a time, for safety reasons." He ejected the cylinder again, showing to Edward the aforementioned, then replaced it. "You will take the grip in your dominant hand, near the top to support against recoil. Do not touch the trigger until you are ready to fire." He frowned a little. "Which _is_ your dominant hand? You seem to use both equally."

"I'm ambidextrous," Edward said, standing a little straighter. Jonathan closed his eyes.

"And you favour neither hand?"

"The left. A little," he relented.

"Continuing. The other hand you will position around the first, so that your thumbs touch each other." He tilted his hands so Edward could see, though the gun was directed downrange. He put the gun down and held his hand out, and Edward mostly automatically handed him the targets. He eyed the weapon as Jonathan left to put up the paper, unsure if he wanted anything to do with it. Firing it would be just about the most illegal thing he'd ever done.

Jonathan returned and placed the rolled-up papers on the left side of the bench, picking up the gun again. "You're going to line up the front sight with your target and the rear you will centre with the front sight. Do not focus on the rear sight." He tapped his index finger against the trigger guard. "Do not put your entire index finger inside of the trigger. Just the top of it will do. You're going to squeeze it and that's all. Any further force will disrupt your aim." And he aimed down the sight and fired the five rounds in the next seven seconds, all of them landing about two inches or so away from the centre. Jonathan, for some reason, looked displeased with this result.

"So you still are pretty good at it," Edward said, and Jonathan seemed to hesitate before he answered with,

"I've been better."

He put the revolver on the shelf and crouched down to pick up the brass. Once he'd pocketed them he said, "I have to collect the rounds."

So Edward watched as he walked down the lane and picked those up as well, and when he returned Edward realised he was going to have to fire it now. As a concept, he'd been all for it, but actually _doing_ it… well, that was something else.

Jonathan removed five rounds from the box and slotted them into the cylinder, rotating it so that the empty one was in the firing position, then gestured Edward in front of him with one finger. He did as directed, though not without some measure of confusion, until Jonathan stood very close behind him and picked the gun back up, gently pressing it into Edward's left hand. Oh. Oh, _now_ he got it.

"I will assist the first time," Jonathan was murmuring into his ear even though he was only half-listening. "The recoil can be… jarring."

Edward was too distracted by the sensation of Jonathan being not quite pressed against him to really appreciate how that statement was whispered, and the situation did not really clear itself up when Jonathan slowly wrapped Edward's other hand around the gun and enclosed both of his around _that_ …

Edward had no idea whether his impulse to shiver was due to having to fire the gun, or to Jonathan's hands being only slightly warmer than the inside of a refrigerator, or to their proximity, but he could not do that ohhhh no. If he did then Jonathan would _know_ , and he would _know_ that this stupid clichéd way of showing him how to fire a gun was getting to him, and he was so _annoyed_ with himself for _falling_ for it…

Oh, what did it matter. Yes, it was a cliché, and yes, it was stupid to fall for it, but it felt nice. He knew full well Jonathan was doing this to demonstrate some measure of power over him, and somehow he could not find it in him to care. He wanted to, sort of. But on the other hand, it was almost a _joy_ at times like these to be manipulated by this man. He didn't understand it, and it was a little unnerving. But for now, it was somehow enjoyable, and if there were any consequences to it he would deal with them later.

"Now you squeeze the trigger," Jonathan murmured, "just enough to fire it. Any further force will have no effect."

And his finger was right there on the trigger, but he couldn't move it. He tried to. Nothing happened. Jonathan let go of him, to his immense disappointment but even greater shame, and moved to the left again. He set his hand against the shelf and Edward's eye traveled the length of his spidery fingers.

"You're embarking upon the career path of luring people into deathtraps in which they meet an inevitable and well-deserved demise, aren't you?" Jonathan asked after a moment. Edward placed the gun down.

"Yes. Why?"

"They're going to die in there, Edward," Jonathan said, his voice level and his eyes boring into an Edward who wasn't looking over there. "They're going to fail your tests and they are going to be killed."

"I know that," Edward snapped. He knew _exactly_ what he was building, thank you very much.

"You know it but you do not understand it." Jonathan was still eerily calm. "Are you telling me you are going to construct deadly puzzles without even being able to fire a gun at a paper target in a controlled environment? It seems _you_ are the one who doesn't know what he's getting into. No wonder you've been sitting in Arkham all this time."

Incensed, Edward reached for the weapon again, determined to prove Jonathan wrong but Jonathan slammed his hand overtop of it and said, his eyes demanding the attention of Edward's own, "Don't you _dare_."

Edward stepped back involuntarily.

"Fine," he muttered, and he pressed his hands into his pockets and stormed outside.

Once there he climbed into the back of Jonathan's truck, which lacked a liftgate – no surprises there – and removed the cigarette holder from his breast pocket. He felt a little better once he'd lit and started on a cigarette, though he was still fuming. But only because Jonathan was right. He'd never really _thought_ about the projected consequences of his traps before. People _were_ supposed to die in there, that's what he had _designed_ them to do – one could hardly be incentivised to play a game without sufficient stakes, after all – and yet it had not quite occurred to him what the end result really was.

That he would be responsible for taking a life.

He didn't know if the concept itself bothered him or merely the realisation he had never thought about it. It was a massive oversight on his part. Jonathan was right. He _didn't_ know what he was getting into.

But Jonathan did.

The cigarette was not quite finished but he tossed it into the grass anyway and stepped on it cursorily after absconding from the truck bed. He brushed the dirt from his jacket as he walked, hoping it wouldn't set too much.

When he returned to the lane Jonathan was firing the revolver again, the five shots spaced across about twenty seconds, and it occurred to Edward that perhaps he had been annoyed during the first rounds because he had been trying to _impress_ Edward by firing them faster than necessary. That made him feel better about willingly being manipulated, and he stepped forward.

"What is it," Jonathan said, in a neutral sort of way. He slid five rounds out of the box with one finger and began to load them into the cylinder.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

Jonathan placed the gun down and turned to face him.

"I have," he said. "What of it?"

"What were the consequences?"

Jonathan almost smiled. "None, mostly. Killing a man merely tells you something you may or may not want to know about yourself. In my case, it told me nothing."

"It didn't bother you," Edward ventured. Surprisingly, this didn't really bother _him_.

"It did not," Jonathan confirmed. "I have seen worse than the dying light in a man's eyes."

 _That_ was a sobering thought.

"I want to try again," he said firmly, and Jonathan just nodded and remained where he was. Edward picked up the gun, half-hoping Jonathan would pick up where they'd left off but knowing he wouldn't. He wrapped and re-wrapped his fingers around the grip, aimed down the sight, and held his breath.

"Don't," Jonathan cut in. "You want to fire at the natural pause between breaths. Holding it will only increase the recoil."

Edward gritted his teeth at this but did his best to push back on the irritation. It was time to listen, not get annoyed at essential instructions.

When he pulled the trigger he did so with as small an action as possible, increasing the pressure slowly in an attempt not to surprise himself. He did anyway, for the ignition was louder than he expected. The recoil was not that bad, and he felt oddly… renewed, in a way, having done it. As though he had opened a door he hadn't been able to find before.

"How was it?" Jonathan asked. Edward looked downrange, towards the target, but Jonathan interrupted him. "How did it _feel_ , Edward."

"Good," Edward said, looking over at him, and to his surprise Jonathan was _smiling_. Just a little, as usual, but enough so that it really did reach his eyes. Edward had to smile himself.

"Good. You should not have trouble with your aim. Your hand-eye coordination is stellar."

An actual _compliment_!

Jonathan picked up one of the two remaining targets and told him to keep the gun down, and Edward watched as he retrieved the rounds and put up the fresh paper. It occurred to him that maybe he should pick up the brass on his end, and did so, with only a modicum of thought that this was really Jonathan's mess and not his. When Jonathan came back he put those into his pocket too and returned to his place by the lefthand wall.

"Aim anyplace you like," he said, "but when aiming for a human being centre mass is your best bet. A headshot will likely disable them, but you are unlikely to hit them there unless they aren't moving."

And he just watched while Edward practiced, sometimes voicing a pointer or two but mostly silently observing. Edward did improve greatly over the next little while, if he did say so himself, and when Jonathan finally said it was time to go he almost didn't want to leave. This wasn't exactly an _intellectual_ pursuit, but… it was fun.

This time Edward went downrange to collect the empty rounds and the now-tattered target, and when he returned Jonathan took them. The walk out to the truck was quiet, and Edward noted that the truck didn't look much better even in the dark.

The drive back to Jonathan's basement was too quiet for Edward's liking, and so he did his best to fill that silence; it was more difficult than he would have thought, mostly because Jonathan seemed not to be listening at all and if anything he was probably becoming increasingly annoyed. Jonathan walked quickly enough that Edward did not even bother to keep pace with him, and when he entered the apartment Jonathan had disappeared without a word. Edward thinned his lips, sitting down on the bed.

Jonathan could have simply _told_ him to shut up.

He angrily returned to sorting Jonathan's books, which took him a further half hour, and once he'd finished that his mood hadn't improved. So out the back door he went, intending for a cigarette to take the edge off… until he saw that Jonathan was already there on the back porch. He had taken apart the revolver and spread the pieces over what Edward was pretty sure was one of his handkerchiefs, and he had a quite old-looking pipe between his lips and a highball glass about four inches full near his right knee. It was such a nice image that Edward was suddenly not angry anymore, and he just sat down with his feet resting on the second step.

"What is that?" Edward asked, gesturing at the drink, and Jonathan glanced at it before answering,

"Bourbon."

Jonathan continued with what he was doing, which seemed to be cleaning the gun: he was carefully brushing all of the small inner parts with a grimy old toothbrush and a bottle of solvent. He was very thorough, moreso than Edward had ever seen him about anything, and when he put down the brush he offered Edward the gun and a rod with a spiralling brush on the end. Edward accepted them hesitantly. Jonathan moved the solvent around in front of him and Edward moved his legs to face the handkerchief.

"Just apply a little of the solvent to the brush and clear out the cylinders," Jonathan told him, and he took a drink of the bourbon with a straight face. Edward never drank for… personal reasons, and the only reason he could only think of for a person wanting to do so was because they wanted to be unable to think. He bit the inside of his cheek after dipping the brush in the solvent.

"I can go," he found himself saying. He couldn't even find a reason for having said it.

Jonathan's brow creased, and he leaned against the side railing of the porch. "I didn't say anything." He went to draw from the pipe, but seemed displeased and picked up a lighter from a place behind his leg Edward had been unable to see. He relit the tobacco and put the stem to his lips.

Edward pushed the rod through the top cylinder, a little anxiously he had to say. He had no idea why Jonathan had entrusted the cleaning of his revolver to him, especially right now, at a time where he was unsure where they stood for the moment. Ah, but that was part of what thrilled him about this, wasn't it? Sometimes the inability to know was exciting, and sometimes it was unnerving.

"So we're good?" he asked, directing the rod into an adjacent cylinder. Jonathan took a long drink.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Edward put down the rod and the gun, in order to direct all of his attention at the other man. "You're drinking. And smoking tobacco at the same time. Those are stress-relieving activities."

Jonathan's regarding of him seemed tired. "Not everything I do is about you, Edward."

"I _know_ that." Edward picked up the gun again, mostly so he would have something else to do. "But you didn't talk to me on the way back. And you practically ran away from me."

"And this offended you personally why?"

"It did not _offend_ me," Edward said, doing his best to keep from gritting his teeth or taking out his frustration on the gun. "It merely made no _sense_ that you professed to want to spend time with me and then immediately tried to escape as soon as was possible."

"If I were attempting to escape I would have left without you, and I hardly would have set myself up anyplace you could find me." He pulled on the pipe again. "You seem to have a great deal of difficulty understanding that I cannot put up with _anyone_ for long periods of time. It's not anything to do with you. Yes, I am engaging in stress-relieving activities. You are partaking in one of them yourself. Doesn't that tell you anything at all?"

Edward removed the rod from the final cylinder and looked up.

"You find cleaning your gun relaxing?"

"I do. And I gave it to you."

He looked over his shoulder in apprehension. Why _was_ he making it about himself again?

"I'm not upset with you and you aren't bothering me," Jonathan went on. "But you do exhaust me. It was either this or I injected you with toxin when I finally reached the end of my rope."

"You probably need this back, then," Edward said, and he put the gun back on the handkerchief. Jonathan laughed, just a little.

"No. You should know how to do it." He gestured to some small white squares. "Go through the cylinders again with these and the solvent."

So Edward did as instructed, and as he did Jonathan settled back against the railing and closed his eyes. It was very cool out by now, and the dim bulb of the porch light didn't spread very far, but there was some sort of… comforting calm about the situation. As though the two of them were old, old friends who had been at all of this a long time and would be in the future. He didn't believe he'd ever had such a thought before.

He thought he liked it.

Once Edward was finished, Jonathan took the revolver and showed him how to cover the metal in gun oil and to clean the excess afterwards; Edward was only able to pay half as much attention as he should have because he was too busy admiring how deft and graceful Jonathan's hands were, despite the ever-present tremors. After wrapping the equipment up in Edward's handkerchief, Jonathan swallowed back the last of the bourbon and stood up. He worked the kinks out of his shoulders and used his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Edward picked up the pipe as he gained his own feet.

Inside the basement Jonathan put the glass on the desk and took the pipe back from Edward, and both that and the gun went into the drawer Edward had found the weapon in. Jonathan took a long breath, seemingly by accident, and sat down at his desk.

"We should probably eat," Edward said, a little hesitantly.

"You go ahead," Jonathan told him.

"But – "

"I know. I've had alcohol so I should. But I'm not in the mood."

Well, Edward couldn't _force_ him to eat, so he would just have to make it easy.

He made enough of a garden salad for the two of them and put a bit less than half in the refrigerator. Once he'd eaten that and cleaned up he went upstairs to shower and brush his teeth. There was residue from the firing range and oil from the gun itself all over him.

All in all, he decided as he washed his hair, it had been a pretty decent day. There were some wrinkles to be worked out, but that would merely take more time. Jonathan was not simple to get to know, not that Edward exactly was himself. It would get easier.

He returned downstairs about an hour later, and to his surprise Jonathan actually was eating the salad. He hadn't expected him to do that until at least after Edward had fallen asleep. He shrugged to himself and put his suit on the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen. He'd have to get that dry-cleaned in a day or two. He then sat back on the bed with his laptop and started reading the news.

He only woke up when he heard his laptop fall on the floor, and out of instinct he went to sit up and grab it… until he realised _why_ it had fallen.

Jonathan had come to bed and fallen asleep mostly on top of him.

He was on his side, his right leg tangled in between Edward's, and his head was on Edward's shoulders and his hand curled around Edward's ribs, and it was incredibly eerie because he was so light and so cold. But it all made Edward incredibly… happy.

He still had all of his clothes on, including his shoes, so it hadn't been intentional. He'd been drinking, of course, and for all Edward knew he'd continued doing that after Edward had gone to bed. This wasn't how Jonathan usually was, none of it. This was just some odd day where Jonathan had been acting odd and had rounded it out in a very odd way. And he tried to tell himself all of this even while he moved one arm around behind Jonathan's shoulders and put one hand over Jonathan's own, wondering if he should try to remove the glasses that were currently pressed into his chest. He needed to remember this was the exception, not the example. That this was only a small fraction of what he was getting into.

But he could not get himself to care.

* * *

 **Author's note**

 **Jonathan drives a blue 1984 Ford F-150 and his gun is a Smith & Wesson M1917. I wanted to give him an older truck but old cars don't last if you don't maintain them like a boss (which Jonathan doesn't) and I picked that gun because it was the heaviest one with the look I wanted. I wanted him to have really solid and heavy equipment, stuff that lasts. But I don't really know anything about guns so anything I said could've been wrong.**

 **Quick reminder that I use my own backstory for Jonathan, but it's primarily based off his Batman '66 origin in which he was abandoned at birth in a boarding house and neglectfully raised by the lady that ran it.**


	17. Part the Seventeenth

Part the Seventeenth

Jonathan was, sure enough, already up when Edward woke the next morning, and he remained irritatingly distant for the next several days. He didn't eat when Edward left for him, didn't speak at all, and consumed so much coffee Edward was unsure how the man wasn't actively hallucinating. He was either out of the house or at his desk at all times, except that one night Edward returned from his property to find Jonathan sitting on the back porch, head braced in one hand and a book spread across his lap, accompanied by that highball glass. This time it had about five inches of alcohol in it, and Edward didn't know how regularly Jonathan usually drank but that struck him as excessive.

"Are you holding up?" he asked, pausing on the third stair. Jonathan took a good handful of seconds to redirect his attention.

"I'm fine," he answered, but he did not sound it. Edward sat down next to him.

"You're not fine," Edward told him. Jonathan merely took a drink of the bourbon, and Edward would have tossed it out into the yard if he hadn't been sure Jonathan would immediately lay him out for it. He wanted no further interaction with that man's fists. When Jonathan put the glass down he closed his book and clasped his hands together, elbows balanced on the cover.

"I suppose I'm not," he said finally. "But knowing that does not mean you or I can fix it."

When Edward looked at him, his eyes seemed distant behind his glasses.

"All I am able to know at present," Jonathan continued, "is that I enjoy your company. But I don't know why. You're irritating, and selfish, and your lack of self-esteem combined with your grandstanding drives me up the wall."

Edward had to chew on his tongue very hard to keep from responding to any of that.

"But you're the only thing I've ever known to make me feel better." Jonathan was nothing short of desolate, and Edward was even closer than before to smacking the highball out of his hand. He was pretty sure it was not what Jonathan needed just now. "Everything I've… dabbled in has been about feeding some bitter spite I cannot let go of. Except for you." He drained the glass and did not put it down without difficulty. "I don't know why I ever spoke to you. It was a mistake."

"Why do you say that?" Edward managed, because his mouth was suddenly very dry at the implication he was yet another person's mistake.

"I had… I had a path," Jonathan answered, and he was definitely losing track of himself now as indicated by the sudden reappearance of the accent he tried so hard to hide. "I was supposed to travel it steadfastly and in solitude. But I… I don't know what happened to it. I don't know if it is still a place I am to walk. My mind tells me to be rid of you, and continue as I was before… but if I did that you would be gone."

Edward was no longer entirely comfortable; all of this was probably nothing Jonathan had ever intended to tell him, was all something he had meant to keep silently to himself, and if Jonathan found out later what he revealed he probably would not be pleased. He stood up. "You need to sleep, Jonathan. In your bed, for once."

"I am _talking,_ Edward," Jonathan said in irritation.

"You're drunk," Edward told him flatly. "You don't know what you're saying now and you won't know later, either. Come on. Let's go inside, eh?"

But Edward's proffered forearm was met only with Jonathan's iron grip. "Do you really think I don't know what I'm doing, Edward? I know full well. Just as I know I could not say this to you sober. I _know_ what I'm saying and I do not want lectured. I want you to _listen_!"

Edward sat down again, though he didn't believe he was going to feel any better about it even after this explanation. Jonathan did not let go of his arm and the affected part of it began to tingle.

"I know what I'm saying, Edward. They are things you need to know."

"All right," Edward said, and he did his best to remove Jonathan's hand. He only did so to tip back the highball again, and when he discovered it was empty he threw it out into the darkness.

"But you're right. I'm intoxicated. I'm exhausted. I'm going to collapse sooner than later. I'll just go to bed." And he stood up, unsteadily enough that he needed ample support from the railing. His face was sunken and bitter, and Edward was at a loss. Jonathan was out of his league in many ways, and this was one of them.

After they'd both reentered the basement Jonathan fairly collapsed on the bed and Edward went upstairs to get cleaned up to do so; he took longer than usual, because he was not sure he wanted to go back downstairs. In his experience, drunken people became angry and violent, and he was confident Jonathan was on his way there. He didn't want that. He didn't want any part of it.

Once he'd put on his pyjamas he joined Jonathan in the bed, sort of; there was only really room for him to sit on it. Jonathan's arms and legs seemed to have somehow increased in length and taken over the entire shoddy mattress. Edward supposed this was what sleeping alongside _him_ must feel like.

"Here," he said, and Jonathan opened his eyes to unevenly focus them on the tumbler of water Edward had brought with him from the bathroom. It wasn't bottled but Jonathan was unlikely to notice or care. He heaved himself to sitting with what appeared to be a great deal of effort and drank.

"Are you staying," Jonathan asked, with a great depth of bitterness, "or has seeing me like this put you off entirely?"

"It has somewhat," Edward admitted. And he took the cup from Jonathan, deposited it in the kitchen sink, and pushed Jonathan's legs out of the way so there was space enough for him. This was really not a big enough bed for two men of their size.

Not that that mattered most of the time, since as usual Edward ended up on top of Jonathan, today by Jonathan's own design. This night, Jonathan's fingers had lost their usual grace and fumbled their way across Edward's scalp, but it still felt nice. He was trying, despite the loss of his higher brain functions.

"I have said before," Jonathan murmured, "that I do not know what you have done to me, and it is times such as this that I care and I do not simultaneously." A shade of his old accent was still present, but hearing it now only made it even more bizarre. He had said he wouldn't mention it, and he had meant it, but he could not reconcile it with Jonathan's appearance no matter the fact that he really did dress like a farmer from down South.

Jonathan pressed his lips to the top of Edward's head, and Edward suddenly felt pity for him. It was a strange feeling, and one he disliked. And though he himself was confused about their relationship, and what Jonathan meant to him, he could not really imagine how it felt to cut yourself off from everyone for years and then suddenly, unintentionally allow someone so deeply into your life. It was probably painful, and confusing, and a little frightening. He knew he couldn't keep straight what he wanted to do and he had _been_ in relationships before.

Eddie lay awake a long time listening to Jonathan's long, steady breathing, and by the time he himself fell asleep he still didn't know what to do.

* * *

Jonathan was still beside him in the morning, though judging from his half-lidded eyes it was not out of personal enjoyment. He was either hungover or couldn't be bothered to get out of bed. Neither of those sounded enticing to Edward, who grimaced and realised too late that he was going to be unable to get out of bed safely due to his leg being stuck under Jonathan's. Once he'd picked himself up and tossed the sheet back on the bed he collected his clothes in something of a huff and stormed upstairs.

An hour later, Jonathan was _still in bed_. Edward didn't think he'd been in a bed that long in his entire life. He folded up his pyjamas and placed them in his case, asking, "Hungover?"

"No," Jonathan snapped. "Don't be ridiculous. I know my limits. It's something else."

"Enlighten me." He pulled his typing gloves on and closed the case, sequestering it beneath the bed. Jonathan sighed laboriously.

"I am sore from lack of nutrition. Are you happy now?"

"All you had to say was that you wanted to join me for breakfast," Edward told him, standing back up. "I wouldn't have made anything of it."

Jonathan's glare was decidedly sceptical, but Edward was not going to argue with him right now. Another time he might have, but he was pretty hungry himself.

He made enough scrambled eggs and toast for the both of them, and Jonathan didn't say anything about this but at least he ate. He even drank half of the green tea Edward had made before getting up to make coffee. He actually drank the rest of it while waiting for the coffee to brew and Edward almost didn't manage to keep quiet about it. It was one of the biggest victories he'd ever had with this man.

Edward was pulling on his jacket to go and get some work done when Jonathan said from his desk, "If you bring back groceries I will make supper."

Edward almost dropped the jacket. "Really?"

Jonathan took a long drink of his coffee. "Yes."

"Do you have a list?"

Jonathan looked at the papers scattering his desk, as though he _might_ have such a list but only an inkling of where it was, then flipped over the page on the legal pad he was using. "Give me a moment."

So Edward came over and sat down on the edge of his desk, though Jonathan's hand was too large for Edward to really spy what he was writing. When he pulled it off the pad Edward was a little distracted by how erratic the line that the paper tore on was. Once he'd reoriented himself mentally he looked at the paper.

"Pork _and_ chicken?"

"I don't recall asking you to argue about it," Jonathan said dryly. "I said I was making supper, not having you critique it."

Well. He had a point.

"Can I take the truck?" he asked, so spontaneously he hadn't actually realised he was going to ask. Jonathan looked over his glasses.

"Why in heaven's name would you want to do that?"

Edward folded the list into his jacket pocket. "I… may have no experience with driving a manual."

Jonathan was not entirely able to hide his amusement, though he did try. "Very well. But only because you'll be able to fix it if something goes horribly wrong."

That sounded promising.

Inside the truck itself, Edward had to research how to drive it on his phone. He didn't want to do it anywhere near Jonathan.

It wasn't as difficult as he had hoped – it largely hinged on finesse with the clutch, which was not too far from the knowing touch he sometimes had to give to his power tools – and though he did end up stalling it a couple of times he was sure that had more to do with the truck's age and owner. He would tune and clean it up if he had a chance. It had been a while since he'd done work on a vehicle, and he found such a task enjoyable and relaxing.

He took it a little farther than he needed to, to one of the more quality grocery stores, and parked the truck a little ways from the entrance. It was a precaution against it failing to start or some such more than anything.

The store wasn't one of those he preferred to frequent, but he _was_ supposed to be laying low. He was too easily recognisable in the places he liked. This store was clean but rundown, with much the same to be said about the employees, and it was well-organised enough that he was able to find all of the things on Jonathan's list that they did not already have back at the apartment before too long. Jonathan did not seem to know what they did have in the cupboards, though this was not altogether surprising.

The truck ran without trouble, and all in all he was fairly pleased when he walked back across the parking lot towards the house. When he stepped back in through the back door Jonathan was at the table, squinting over some smattering of powder in front of him.

"I'm back," Edward told him, and Jonathan nodded vaguely and pushed his chair away from the table.

"We'll get started, then," he said.

In the kitchen Jonathan removed what was probably the world's oldest slow cooker from one of the lower cabinets as Edward put the groceries on the table. Jonathan then turned to the bags, inspected them, and removed the package of ribs.

"This stuff actually all goes together?" Edward asked, still a little confused as to why he needed both pork _and_ chicken in the same meal. Jonathan nodded, somewhat distantly.

Edward hoisted himself onto the countertop and watched as Jonathan browned the ribs in a very heavy skillet, dicing the onion at the same time. He bit his tongue. Something was still going on with him.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asked. Jonathan looked at him from the corner of his eye.

"I never was to begin with."

Edward crossed his legs. "You haven't been talking to me, and last night you were saying – " He stopped when Jonathan closed his eyes.

"Edward," Jonathan said, "I do not really want to talk about it."

He thinned his lips, clasping his hands together. "You're going to have to eventually."

Jonathan ignored him and instead put most of the remaining ingredients into the slow cooker, and once he was finished he just left the room. Edward rolled his eyes and supposed his part of this was to clean everything up. He let himself down from the counter and called back into the other room, "How long is this going to take?"

"Eight hours."

"Why does everything you do take _all day_?" Edward snapped, throwing the knife back into the sink in frustration. Really, it was going to be time for _bed_ by the time this soup was finished!

"Maybe you should go," Jonathan said.

"Go where?"

"Just… in general, I meant."

Where in the _hell_ had this come from? Edward abandoned the kitchen entirely and stormed into the other room, folding his arms and standing over Jonathan. "Are you kicking me out?"

"Not exactly."

Edward sighed through his nose and took hold of one of the chairs perpendicular to where Jonathan was sitting, spinning it around so he could sit on it backwards. "All right Jonathan, it's time to stop being so mysterious and just tell me what the hell is going on."

Jonathan's hands were folded together and he was tapping his thumbs against each other. "I don't have an answer for you."

"So you want me to leave but you don't know why? Is that it?" Christ, how _stupid_.

"A thought has been plaguing me these last days," Jonathan said. "Why do you take care of me?"

Edward crossed his arms over the back of the chair. "Because you're a mess, that's why."

"Surely your time and effort would be better spent on someone else."

"Is this a roundabout way of telling me you're mad I keep rearranging all of your stuff?"

Jonathan shook his head. "That's been less irritating than I initially thought it was going to be. I haven't had this many clean clothes… well, ever, really."

Edward threw up one of his hands. "Well, what?"

Jonathan took a long breath. "That's part of it. I don't mind. And I should."

"And you should because…" Perhaps he was being too impatient, and Jonathan was going to shut down on him rather than provide any answers, but all of this was entirely too complicated.

"When I took you to the range the other day," Jonathan said slowly, "it was due to a moment of… fondness, I suppose it was. You see, I find that more and more often you inspire things in me I have never felt before, and I… do not know whether I should allow it to continue."

"Like what?" Edward asked, doing his best not to sound too pushy.

"I have been thinking extensively about it," Jonathan continued, "and… I cannot remember ever being _happy_ before."

Edward looked down at the chipped cement below his feet.

"But I don't know why you do this to me. I don't know what it is about you that makes me _feel_ in ways I cannot even name. And so I don't know if I should allow it to go on. Perhaps I should put an end to it now, while I am still ahead."

"I'm not going to leave you," Edward said softly. And he wasn't. Jonathan was a mess, that was for sure, but he was _Edward's_ mess.

"It's not about you," Jonathan said, his tone a little more firm. "You _know_ why you're here, and what's going on in your own mind, and what to do about all of it. And you know what to do when it ends."

"If," Edward corrected.

"Oh, come now," Jonathan scoffed, looking at Edward for the first time and not with a look resembling anything pleasant, "do you _really_ think yourself as being with _me_ for the rest of your life?"

Well, he hadn't thought quite _that_ far ahead, but… "I don't see why not."

"You hardly know me, Edward."

"Because you won't tell me!" Edward had to consciously unclench his fists. "Every time we start to _get_ somewhere you shut down! Which you're about to do right now, aren't you?"

Jonathan was also clenching his hands together excessively, now. But at least he wasn't arguing about it.

"You're acting like some misunderstood teenager," Edward told him, folding his arms together. "You're an adult, I'm an adult. I'm not going to go out to the playground and make fun of you to everyone else that you have feelings for me."

"It wasn't a playground," was what he thought Jonathan said, and this threw him for a moment before he realised what that implied.

"Then what was it?"

"It was a cliché," Jonathan said, and now he just looked defeated. "The odd one out takes a chance and it backfires on him spectacularly. I thought I'd put all of it behind me, when I moved on to university. I thought it was time to take a chance. It wasn't. It never will be."

"Then what am I?"

"If I knew, I would not be conflicted."

Edward pressed his forehead to the top of the chair back. There wasn't a whole lot he could do about this. He'd been turned down before as well, of course, but he'd been taken up just as many times, if not more. He'd been with people longer than he'd been with Jonathan, and had felt more strongly about them too. He had no magic words, no advice, no way of consolation. For the first time, he thought perhaps he _should_ go. Jonathan just might be more than he was equipped for. This was as enticing as it was unnerving, though for the moment it was far more of the latter.

"You have been a good thing for too long," Jonathan said. "I am not allowed to keep good things. I am allowed only to touch them, and then they fade away."

Edward stood up, moved his chair next to Jonathan's, and leaned it back so that his feet rested on the table. "Jonathan," Edward told him, "stop being so dramatic. You know, for a guy who likes to say he moved on from his history you sure spend a lot of time wallowing in it."

"What?"

Edward waved a hand at him before folding it with the other behind his head. "Look at you. Living the same life you always have, wearing the same clothes, driving the same truck, hell, you're still eating the same _food._ Doesn't that strike you as _odd_ that you engage in all these behaviours you say you hate but you're really deriving comfort from? Was that person who rejected you a city boy too?"

"He was," Jonathan answered.

"Jonathan, I simply don't care about your past as much as you seem to think I do. And by 'care' I mean 'find it a subject of ridicule'. If I'm going to make fun of you it's not going to be about the city you were born in, or your accent, or how tall you are. It's going to be something that makes sense, like you being a full-grown man who thinks living in a house that looks like a pack of two-year-olds ran through it is normal."

"It is to me," Jonathan admitted. "The boarding house was a 'Lord bless this mess' kind of place."

Edward rolled his eyes. "And you say _I'm_ the one who defines himself based on his history. You're doing it too, Jonathan. You're the same person as you ever were. You're just in a different place."

Jonathan turned sideways, draping his arm over the back of the chair. "You may be right."

"Of _course_ I'm right." And he let the chair down to all four legs. "I can't help you understand how you feel. You have to work that out for yourself. But if you feel inclined to do that, let it be known that I _do_ quite enjoy attention."

"You may have to wait for that," Jonathan said, and he pressed two fingers to his eyes beneath his glasses. "I can't talk to you for another three days now."

Oh.

His face must have registered this disappointment, because Jonathan laughed and put a hand on his shoulder for a little longer than necessary to draw his attention. "I'm not serious. Three hours, maybe. I have some thinking to do."

"Fine," Edward grumbled, and he got out of the chair a bit aggressively. He had to finish cleaning up in the kitchen anyway.

He almost dropped his handful of empty cans when he saw Jonathan standing there, stirring the soup with a long wooden spoon. Edward had no idea how he moved so silently. "I could have done that," Edward said, brow creasing.

"I said I was making supper," was Jonathan's answer for that.

Jonathan did not have a recycling bin and so Edward had to take the cans around the back of the house to the one the family upstairs kept there. Jonathan was returning to his table when Edward got back, and for some reason he frowned. "What?" Edward asked, unsure of what he'd managed to do in the last five minutes to cause that.

"You seem to have gotten something…" Before Edward could guess the end of that sentence, Jonathan had come over to him and laid his hand over Edward's left cheek, and Edward only figured out the entire thing was a ploy because Jonathan hesitated. But the kiss itself was confident and oh so enjoyable, and Jonathan must have been sampling his soup because he actually tasted _good_ for once. Still something like stale coffee, but less so than usual.

"So did you get it?" Edward asked when Jonathan straightened.

"Get… oh. Yes, I think so. I may have been seeing things. Perhaps my glasses need cleaned."

Edward laughed and wondered how many more of these convenient excuses Jonathan was going to come up with in order to kiss him. He hoped it was a great deal more. "If I go out and clean your truck you won't be mad, will you?"

"Oh heavens no," Jonathan said, and he was already walking back to the table but he paused to wave his hand in Edward's general direction. "I have no idea where anything even _is_ in there. If you take a crack at it I might even be able to locate the seat."

* * *

It took Edward about four hours to do just that, and he still hadn't even gotten started on the _outside_. Still, he was starving and it was done enough for now, and he could get to the fun part later. That being, obviously, the tune-up the engine so badly needed.

"Jonathan!" he called out as he opened the basement door, and of course Jonathan was still sitting in the same chair he was always sitting in. He brought in with him a shoddy plastic bag of Jonathan's paperwork, which he pushed aside a space on the table to put it on. "What is all of this?"

Jonathan lifted up the top sheet with disinterest. "I don't know. The notes on my abandoned original thesis, I believe."

"Why did you abandon it?"

"I wrote it far too ahead of time," Jonathan answered. "I was only halfway through my bachelor's." He shrugged. "It had its usefulness at the time, I suppose."

"Am I getting rid of it?"

"No. Just put it… somewhere."

"Will do," Edward said dryly, rolling his eyes, and stuffed the papers into a shelf he'd designated for such things.

"You really do like to fix things, don't you."

He shrugged. "It beats breaking them."

"Such a glib answer."

He bunched the empty plastic bag into his fist. "You're psychoanalysing me to make up for earlier, aren't you."

"A little," Jonathan said.

"Well, don't. I wasn't trying to fix you. People can't be fixed. You can tape them up but you can't make it permanent." He sat down in the chair across from Jonathan. "And I never said I thought you needed fixed."

Jonathan nodded. "All true."

"Well, I cleaned out the bed of your truck and parked it in the yard for me to work on later, so if you wanted to sit out back of it for dinner we could go ahead and do that."

"What possessed you to think of that?"

Edward leaned forward. "Don't tell me you've never wanted to sit in the back of a pickup truck with someone before."

Jonathan's lips parted a little. "I..."

"Kind of thing a guy sees out the window of his bedroom when he lives in the country, isn't it? Kind of thing he wonders just who he might do it with one day."

"Hm," was all Jonathan said to that.

And they did just that, had the soup while sitting in the back of Jonathan's truck, and Edward had done this before at drive-ins and such but had to admit the pickup truck was much better for this activity than any car he'd ever had. When they had finished eating Jonathan told Edward to stay put and went inside, and had come back with Edward's tea to his immense delight. It seemed Jonathan only pretended not to pay attention. He watched as Jonathan carefully packed tobacco into his pipe and lit it, smoke from the bowl disappearing into the dark.

"Where did you get that from?" Edward asked, and Jonathan looked it over for a moment.

"The city, somewhere. I lost the one I brought with me. I didn't lose the tobacco, just the pipe. It's possible my roommate stole it."

"In university?"

Jonathan nodded, pressing the stem to his lips.

"Why would they do that?" Edward had never met another person who smoked tobacco.

"It worked in a pinch when they ran out of papers for their marijuana, I suppose."

"And… are you stressed right now?" Edward asked after a moment. Jonathan didn't answer immediately.

"Not currently," he finally said. "I was, but not now." And he put his arm around Edward's shoulders, so of _course_ Edward had to move a little closer just to be polite.

It was soon after that that Jonathan started kissing him, just softly on his brow at first and then down his jaw to his throat. He had no idea just where Jonathan planned to go with this, but if he had his way Edward knew where he'd _like_ it to go. He turned enough to bring Jonathan's head down to apply a long, lingering kiss to those chapped lips of his, and when Jonathan put his pipe down Edward directed the recently freed up hand between his thighs.

Jonathan's laugh was low and husky. It spread a warmth through Edward's stomach.

"Who said I wanted to go _that_ far?" he murmured into Edward's neck, just where he liked it.

"You will because I want you to," Edward told him, pleased when Jonathan left his hand where Edward wanted it.

"You are a selfish little bastard." But his tone was light and followed with the index finger of his free hand flicking the tip of Edward's nose.

"Yes, we both know that. But you obviously don't care, because you love me regardless." And he reached up so he could pull Jonathan's head down for a kiss, but Jonathan moved away. He looked almost... distressed. He wasn't actually upset about Edward being selfish, was he?

"Yes," he said faintly, looking at Edward in a way that was at once tender and sad. "Yes, I... I do love you."

Edward sat up, what they'd been doing forgotten. He'd been teasing. He hadn't really meant it! Why would he ever have cause to say that in all seriousness? "You do?"

Jonathan spread his hands, shaking his head. "What else can this feeling be?" He brought Edward to his side again, gripping his shoulders with those long hands and pressing his face into Edward's hair. "It would explain _so much_ ," he whispered, more to himself than to Edward, and all Edward could do was sit there, unable to move.

* * *

 **Author's note**

 **It's up to you to decide whether Jonathan really loves Edward or not. He might. But he's never had any of these feelings before, and he's also never had anyone before, so perhaps he just feels possessive and thinks of Edward as some shiny object he doesn't want to lose. There's not really a right answer. Personally I don't think he does, not yet.**


	18. Part the Eighteenth

Part the Eighteenth

"You have to stop doing that."

Edward rolled his eyes and ignored him. He took another drag of his cigarette despite the lecture he was about to get. He wasn't _stupid_ , he _knew_ perfectly well he shouldn't smoke, but it was one of the only things that helped besides the counting and he had nowhere to count just then. He had neither paint nor chalk and the walls in the basement were roughened brick. He would have had to make the trip to his property and to have found some paint and then the walls would have been ruined further. Not only did all of that sound very unappealing, he was too tired to start on it. To smoke all he needed to do was sit outside and light a cigarette, and that was what he had done.

"Edward." He had sat himself on Edward's left. "Seriously."

"It's your fault," Edward said, forgetting he'd meant to remain silent. He finished the cigarette and flicked the end of it into the stone backyard. He probably should have stepped on it to be sure it was out, but he'd gone out in just his pyjama pants and obviously his bare foot wasn't the tool for the job.

After Jonathan had let go of Edward, he had immediately gone into the house and changed his clothes, intending to go to sleep and forget about all of this. He didn't want to think about it. It didn't make any sense and he wished he could make Jonathan take it back. But he could no more do that than he could keep from turning it over in his mind, and so he had given up on sleep and sat down on the porch. Jonathan had not come in that whole time, possibly wondering if he'd let too much be revealed. Well, he had.

" _My_ fault?"

"Look, Jonathan, I don't know why you said that, but I don't appreciate being lied to. I don't want to hear anything like that out of you again." Damn. He was already wishing he had another cigarette. That was the problem with smoking over counting. The first one helped but it always made him want another.

"Said – " He heard the shuffling of Jonathan's foot readjusting on the stairs. "I wasn't lying."

"Of course you were," Edward said with disdain. "I'm not an idiot. I'm not falling for that."

"I wasn't trying to get you to fall for anything. I _meant_ it. And quite frankly _I_ don't appreciate your accusations. It wasn't easy for me to say that, you know. I'm not willing to play your game of flattery right now. You need to get over yourself." Jonathan stood up, and despite himself Edward turned his head to look. "In fact… we already went _through_ this. You're a damned idiot. I should never have allowed you to come back. Everything I do is met with suspicion from you, and I have had enough. You asked me to stop shutting down and I did, and now you're upset anyway. You're going to need to re-evaluate what it is you're doing here, because I no longer have any idea. But I am _sick_ of this." He turned around and Edward grabbed his shin on impulse. Jonathan yanked his leg away, an anger more intense than any he'd directed at Edward before on his face, but Edward didn't care.

"I'm not playing any games! _You're_ the one faking things to see what my reaction'll be! I didn't fall for it and now _you're_ acting indignant! If you'd like to 're-evaluate'," and here he paused to raise finger quotes, "then go ahead! If you're going to toy with me like that I don't want to be around you _anyway!_ I know enough people I can go to if I want to be treated like that." Now he stood as well. He didn't know where he was going, but away from Jonathan would be a good start.

"Treated like _what_ , Edward! I've treated you well since the beginning. I didn't have to do that, and everyone told me not to, but I _did_. And I should have listened. I was a fool to be a piece in your game." The words were right, but something was off about them. He didn't sound angry, just… upset. That almost gave Edward pause. Almost. He turned to face Jonathan and raised one finger accusingly.

"A piece in _my_ game? Oh no. No, it's been you playing _me_ this whole time, and you expected me to crumble for you and when I didn't you came out here to play the victim, a role you tried to ascribe to me." It had been a lie, all of it. There _was_ no Jonathan. The confused, conflicted man he'd been over the course of the week was just intended to weaken Edward, to soften him so that Jonathan could tear him to shreds. Well, he wasn't going to allow _that_.

Jonathan grabbed his wrist and Edward yanked it away immediately, with such force that he stumbled back onto the bottom of the stairs and had to grip the splintering railing hard to prevent himself from falling. His back hurt where he'd slammed it into the wood. "Don't _touch_ me!" he shouted, realising his hands were shaking even as they hung onto the rail. "You're just like him. Just like _all_ of them. But you're not going to get what you want out of me, like they did. I admit it, I got strung along for a while there. It was nice to think I'd found someone who had some iota of respect for me. But no more. Consider this ended. _I will be no one's victim again!_ " And he moved down the remaining stairs and into the yard. The whole debacle stung at the back of his throat, somehow. He didn't _want_ to leave. What he wanted was for Jonathan to call him back and apologise for lying. For betraying Edward's trust. And Edward would be cautious, as befitted the situation, but he would give Jonathan another chance. For the sake of what they'd seemed to have had. He already found himself gritting his teeth at the thought of losing the one person he'd thought had listened to him. It had all been an act, of course. He should have expected it. That was what their kind did, after all. He'd been stupid. So incredibly stupid. And it hurt all the more to know that he had come so close to having something like this, even after the stupid mistake he'd made before, and it turned out that trying to do right had led him nowhere.

"Just like whom?" Jonathan called after him.

He didn't want to answer. He really didn't. But his tongue got the best of him again and he answered, stopping to ensure he'd be heard so he didn't have to repeat it, "My father. Who else?"

"I'm… not like your father, Edward. I've played you no games."

"Do you really think I can believe anything you say right now? Really?"

"Edward, I think… will you come here a moment? I really feel as though the both of us heard something the other didn't say."

"Why should I bother? I'm just going to get more lies out of you. If I want lies I know where to go."

"Edward. Let's be adults about this. Just come here and clarify what you're trying to say."

He sounded so reasonable that Edward couldn't really help but go and sit back down. He was well aware that he was probably being manipulated again, but on the other hand… it couldn't hurt to hope that something really _had_ been miscommunicated, could it?

Jonathan sat next to him a second time, taking a long second to place his legs. "Thank you. Now. Why are you comparing me to your father?"

Edward sighed.

"You're supposed to trust your parents, right? If you get into trouble or if you get hurt, all that fun stuff, they're supposed to be there. And the thing with parents is…" He clenched his hands together. "You keep on trusting them even after they prove you shouldn't. Over and over and over again. And that's the comparison. You let me down and even though you did that, I still want to trust you and you _know_ that's how I feel and you did it anyway."

"I haven't betrayed your trust. I promise you that. It is one of the only things I even have."

"Then why did you tell me you loved me?" Edward shouted, fingernails entrenched in his palms. He was shocked to find that his eyes were stinging. He wasn't going to cry _now_ , was he? How pathetic. Crying over another person who didn't deserve a second more of his thoughts.

"Because I… because I _do_ , Edward. I think. As I've said previously, you've caused me to feel many things I've not encountered before and I cannot explain." He leaned forward, and Edward could feel those eyes searching his face. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it."

"Of course you would have," Edward said, and he was doing his best but his face dampened every time he blinked. He hoped his glasses hid it well enough. "It's what you did."

"It isn't," Jonathan insisted. "There's no code to crack here, Edward, no riddle to be solved. I did not lie."

"You must have."

"I don't understand why you think that."

"No one could ever love me," Edward found himself whispering, because his voice was stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. He turned away, ashamed of himself. He'd really done it now. He'd really played into Jonathan's hands. It had probably been exactly what he wanted to hear. He was going to stick it to Edward now, laugh and tell him of course no one could and that he'd been an idiot for hoping for just one second that -

Jonathan had taken him in his arms from behind, his thighs pressed against Edward's as he settled his feet on a lower stair. His face was against the back of Edward's head, his embrace strong and sure, and he sighed into Edward's hair. This was something Edward badly wanted just then, but could no longer have, because he couldn't trust in Jonathan anymore. When he tried to push Jonathan's arms away, however, he was unable.

"Eddie," Jonathan said, very softly, "I know exactly how you feel. I honestly do. And yes. I understand that, with the both of our backgrounds taken into account, it must be very difficult for you to trust me right now. But you can. I have not betrayed you. I don't play games with you. I don't have to. You can believe me without penalty. But if you can't, I will understand. If you need to go, I will not stop you."

Edward's hands had wrapped themselves around Jonathan's wrists of his own volition. He felt so safe and so strong… God, _why_ did Edward want to trust him when he'd lied? He _had_ to have lied! "You said yourself I was a selfish bastard. You know firsthand all the things people say about me. You – "

"I know none of that is the whole story. And yes, you are selfish. Somehow it only adds to your charm." When he pulled Edward back he couldn't find it in him to resist. Jonathan's hand threaded through his hair. "I never expected things to get this far. Neither did you. And yet here we are."

Edward didn't know what to do.

He wanted to believe Jonathan. He wanted to believe that, maybe, it _wasn't_ a lie. No; he _already_ believed it. He could not help but trust Jonathan, even though he didn't want to. The question was whether or not he should stay regardless.

"We need to do something about your father," Jonathan said after a while. He was still stroking Edward's head. It was incredibly soothing. "You are never going to heal otherwise. I don't know why you haven't done anything already. We'll think of something together. Or I will just go and kill him myself, God knows I've done it a thousand times in my mind already – "

"No."

"Edward," Jonathan sighed in exasperation, "you cannot keep letting this sit! You _must_ face it. If you cannot kill him, I will."

"No."

"Your father doesn't care about you, Edward! There is never going to be a day where he visits you in the Asylum and invites you back home for a sitcom-esque reunion. He is going to keep on twisting the knife he left in you until you take it out!"

"You don't understand," Edward said. "You don't have parents. You don't get it."

"No, I don't. I don't understand what having parents is like. And if this is what it does to brilliant men like you, I'm glad of that. I don't have any desire to be in your position, beholden to a father who brings nothing but harm. You need to let go."

"He'll forgive me," whispered Edward. He held onto Jonathan's arm ever the tighter. "He'll forgive me one day."

"For cheating?"

"No." His chest hurt. "For being born at all."

* * *

When Edward woke up, Jonathan was sitting at the table with his back mostly to Edward. He had the chair positioned in such a way that he wasn't flush with the table, and Edward could see his firmly folded hands on the tabletop. His face was set in deep, distressed thought.

"Jon?" His voice was hoarse. He didn't remember just yet how he'd gotten to bed in the first place, but he would later, not that it was important. Jonathan didn't move.

"Mm."

"I… about last night. I was being – "

"Your feelings aren't stupid. They never are." He turned around, leaning on the back of the chair to look at Edward. "But I was serious. We need to do something about your father. And I don't want to hear any protest from you. Part of healing involves facing the source of the injury. You don't abolish your fears by avoiding them; that makes them stronger. And so by avoiding taking action towards your father, you make _him_ ever stronger." He rubbed at his eyes. "I have a responsibility to help you with this. Not just as your partner, nor as your friend, but as a psychiatrist. I cannot keep watching you hurt yourself over this. Though to be honest, it upsets me more than a little to know that I cannot have you because you belong to your father still. And I never will while you leave this unresolved." He met Edward's gaze. "It hurts, Edward, that you hold me at arm's length so you can keep your father between us."

Edward sat up, clutching a handful of the sheet. "That's not – "

"It is. He's not going to forgive you. Not that being alive is anything to need _forgiven_ for." His face at that moment was intensely derisive. "You are hardly responsible for your own mistaken conception. Not even the cheating; every little boy does something of that sort. It's what little boys do. I understand your feelings on this, Edward. But you're waiting for a day that is never going to arrive."

Edward pressed his face into his knees.

"I'll do it myself. You don't have to have any part in it. I will kill him and you will never see him again."

"You're going to do it whether I say you can or not," Edward told his legs.

"Because I can see clearly what you can't!" Jonathan shouted. "This odd hold of parenthood he has on you is something I am not blinded by! This isn't a fairy tale, Edward, there is no happy ending between you and him! Let it go!"

"Don't tell me what to do," Edward snapped, infuriated. He stood up.

"You are _mine_ , do you understand! You are _mine_ and he _cannot have you!_ "

Jonathan was standing too now, and so tense that every muscle and tendon stood out in sharp relief against his skin. His breaths were uneven and his eyes wider than Edward had ever seen them. Edward stood and backed away, in the direction of the basement door.

"So what? First _he_ owns me, then you? Am I just going to pass ownership of myself from person to person until the day I die? You _own_ me, Jonathan? Is that it? How long before you start to hit me too? Who do I turn to then?"

"I would _never_ – "

"I'm just supposed to take your _word_ for it? Parents aren't supposed to hit their kids and they aren't supposed to abandon them, either, but it happened! What happens when the next person decides they own me, eh Jonathan? What will I do then?"

"Eddie," Jonathan said, and he looked so tired all of a sudden that Edward paused in his exit. "Someone is always going to own you. Someone is always going to have a piece of you you can't have back. Unless you become entirely autonomous, that's the way the mind _works_. If autonomy is what you want, that's fine. I understand that. What I don't understand is... is why you prefer that _he_ has you and not me."

He sat back down and buried his face in his hands. "It's not one-sided, Edward, you own me as well! Look what you've done to me. I never used to be like this, used to _feel_ like this! I _hate_ it. I hate the things you bring out of me that I've never known before. I hate it but I cannot go without it. It gives me some feeling of... God, I don't know what it is, but I almost feel _sick_ at the thought of you walking away over your _father_ , of all things. And though doing so may mean that, I am going to kill him. It doesn't matter the consequence. I don't like the thought but if I cannot have you whether he lives or dies, that no longer has meaning. Even if it means I cannot keep you, I will not allow him to have you any longer."

Edward raised his head. "Wait."

"What."

"You would kill my father even though you know it might mean that I walk away?"

"Yes."

Edward walked over to him, grasping his shoulders with both hands. Jonathan looked up at him, the picture of fatigue. The lines in his face seemed to have deepened considerably and he looked so very old. "You _do_ love me!" Edward said, and God did something lift from his chest just then.

"I told you that I did." His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

"But I didn't believe you until now!" And when he threw himself on top of Jonathan for a hug Jonathan just sighed with an immense amount of gravity and caught him.

"My God, Edward, you exhaust me."

"But you like me that way."

"I suppose," Jonathan said with some measure of disbelieving reluctance, and when Edward laughed and held onto him tighter he only shook his head and pressed his face into Edward's neck.

After a few moments Jonathan said, "Edward, this chair is not large enough for the two of us. The bed would really be a better place for this."

Edward was not unreceptive to this idea, and the two of them sat down on the bed, Jonathan's back against the wall and Edward ensconced between his legs. The mood was a little heavier now, as Jonathan's arms clasped Edward's chest a little too urgently, and Edward took a bit of a shaky breath.

"But you can't kill him."

He could _feel_ the man's disapproving stare. "Edward."

"Jon, you're… you're right. I admit that. But I can't just… he can't just disappear. That's not going to be enough. I must _best_ him."

"How on earth do you plan to do that?"

"I… I don't know yet."

Jonathan unclasped his hands to place them over Edward's own. "You don't _want_ to know. Knowing means giving up. And I understand why you don't want to do that, but _he_ gave up on _you_ before you ever -"

"And that's the point," Edward interrupted, not wanting to get into that line of thought. "I can't do what he did. I have to do it my way. I have to find the _right_ way."

Jonathan inhaled slowly and pressed his nose into Edward's hair. "You are a better man than I."

"I… " He tried to give Jonathan the compliment, he really did, but for some reason it didn't make it out of his throat."

"You are," Jonathan said. "When I had the chance, I returned to Arlen and forced them all to suffer in the worst way I had available. There was no thought to it, no real reasoning, just…"

Edward wondered if he was going to finish that sentence.

"… anger."

"I'm not angry with him."

"I know." He was holding Edward very firmly. He liked that. He liked it a lot. "But you could have been by now, if you had wanted. Could have gone to his home and pulverised his skull out of a righteous anger, and no one would have thought twice. But you refuse to be."

He had to say that the thought of _being_ Jonathan's, as he had claimed earlier, irked him, but Jonathan was right. If he wanted to be with Jonathan, he had to give some of himself away. In recognition of Jonathan's doing so. And really, what was the issue with giving like that if he received something so rare in return?

"Anger is… _his_ reason," Edward said slowly. "If it becomes mine, I have failed."

"Edward, I… am sorry I shouted," Jonathan told him after a minute.

"I'm not," Edward told him. "Sometimes it's hard to tell if I got a real feeling out of you, and that…" He shrugged a little. "Yelling doesn't help anything, but at least I know it's real."

"That's true. Still, I would have preferred to have kept my head." He abruptly released Edward and got up, a little too quickly. "I… I have work to do."

"Sure," Edward said, a little disappointed but with no real say in the situation. "I'll go get some done myself."

Jonathan sat down at his desk, a little reluctantly if Edward wasn't mistaken, but there was something worrying at the back of his mind. When he figured out what it was, he said, "Uh… Jonathan?"

"Mm."

"What if… if I never feel the same way?"

Jonathan did not hesitate. He looked Edward in the eye and said,

"That's my problem."

It was… a good response. A mature one. One that Edward hadn't expected to hear.

"And if it will be too much for you, then I ask you to relate it now." Edward wasn't even looking at him and he knew he was under scrutiny. "You know where I stand, and neither of us know where you stand. If you are already contemplating leaving, then do so. The place we are at leaves no room for doubt."

"How is it not too much for you?" Edward asked. "You haven't had so much as a friend before, and now…" He couldn't say it, even after they'd discussed it. Maybe someday he'd believe somebody loved him, but not right now. Away from Jonathan, with his cool logic again between them, Edward was already uncertain whether or not Jonathan's assurances had been true or merely a tactic to bind Edward to his will for as long as possible. How could a man such as Jonathan even _know_ what love _felt_ like? It couldn't possibly be true that Jonathan would love him without expecting the same in return, could it?

Jonathan took off his glasses and pressed his fingers to his eyes.

"It is," he said.

Edward went outside and raised the hood of the truck, and he would not be able to as much as he wanted without a hoist but he could still get in there and do _some_ measure of maintenance. He did his best to think about the truck, and _only_ about the truck, but one question nagged at him as much as he tried to ignore it:

Did _he_ have the capacity to love _Jonathan_?

He didn't know. He'd been in love before, or at least he _thought_ he had; now he was no longer certain. Now it seemed like such a complicated thing, something he'd never come _close_ to touching. If it was true, of course. It might be true. Edward was still sceptical, but was that because he was right or because it was something he needed to address with himself?

He wanted it to be. But between Jonathan's personality and Edward's own distrust, he couldn't be sure. Jonathan _was_ the kind of person to say those things just to keep Edward from leaving. This was all a ploy, of course it was. Jonathan didn't love him, didn't want to kill his father, didn't want to do _anything_ for him that didn't benefit himself. He probably didn't want to kill Edward's father for Edward's sake, but because his existence offended Jonathan personally. He was faking because he wanted something from Edward.

Well, Edward wanted something from Jonathan as well. So perhaps Jonathan's charade was acceptable, even if it wasn't true and the potential lack of truth pained Edward's stomach. He bit his tongue and wondered why he cared at all if Jonathan actually did love him or not. He hadn't expected him to, and if he didn't it was no skin off Edward's nose.

Maybe it was merely the fact that it was being held in front of him by a man he respected and admired, a rarity for him. It wasn't true, it couldn't be.

But if it was… wouldn't it be _glorious_?

Edward had to go inside once his fingers became a bit too thick with ancient grease, and it took him so long to clean his hands and then clean the kitchen sink afterward that he wasn't totally inclined to go back outside. Jonathan had gone and did not reappear for all the time this took, and as Edward walked over to his table to see what he'd been working on he saw the gauntlet was sitting out again. He hadn't seen it since the old table had broken. He sat down and inspected it, and upon doing so realised it didn't even _work_.

It _looked_ fine, from a distance that was, but it didn't hold up under scrutiny at _all_. It was merely a prop as it was, meant to be threatening enough to cow those that needed put in their place, but it was otherwise functionally useless.

It was a good idea, however. One Edward probably had enough materials back at his place to put together properly.

* * *

Jonathan didn't return until long after the sun had gone down, and he seemed to have been out stealing lab supplies because he put a plastic bag full of the stuff down on the table before he sat down. He looked very tired. Edward was leaning back on the bed, ostensibly working on his computer, but he was far too interested in Jonathan's reaction to do _that_ just now.

He'd just put the gauntlet down in about the same spot, since Jonathan wasn't likely to notice he'd even touched it, and he waited impatiently for Jonathan to notice it was no longer made of plastic.

"Where… Edward, what is this?" he asked in confusion, hands somewhat poised over the gauntlet but not touching it.

"Well, it's your gauntlet," Edward answered, sitting up and putting his laptop aside, "but now it actually works."

"How did you know it didn't to begin with?"

Edward rolled his eyes. "I'm an _engineer_ , Jonathan. Not only that but it occurred to me that you never actually _used_ it. It's always being taken apart, or you're just waving it at me without actually doing anything threatening with it. I can't say I'm a fan of the design, but you can consult me later. For now, you can use that to inject people to your shrivelled heart's delight."

Jonathan just stared at it, as if it were an illusion blinking would dispel, and Edward could not help laughing. "It's yours," he said. "You can keep it."

"I've… never received a gift that was not a prank before," Jonathan said, a little faintly. Edward decided now was the time to get up and did so, hoisting himself onto the table in front of Jonathan.

"I know," Edward said quietly. "But it's no prank."

"I did not think this would ever happen, and if it did I told myself I would take it in stride." He held one hand over the gauntlet, as if to stroke it. "It seems I have been surprised by you yet again. Thank you."

And when Edward reached down and hugged him, he resisted only for a few moments.

* * *

Later on, after Edward had eaten and Jonathan had refused to, they were sitting again in the back of Jonathan's pickup truck drinking their respective beverages with an old picnic blanket Edward had found under the seat spread over their legs. They were both reading beneath the light of one of Edward's industrial halogens, Jonathan with an actual book and Edward with his laptop. Not that Edward had actually read anything in a while now; he was too warm and content, leaned up against Jonathan's shoulder. He was waiting for Jonathan to put an arm over him, but he seemed to be biding his time.

"This won't last, you know," Edward said.

"Hm?"

"This. We aren't going to stay like this. We're going to fight over something and you're going to inject me with fear toxin or I'm going to run away for three days, and we're both going to regret even trying."

"I haven't regretted anything," Jonathan said. "If you have, that's unfortunate, but as for me… it has not been easy but I do not wish to turn back." He put one hand around Edward's thigh and left it there. He gave up on the laptop entirely and put it aside, wishing the blanket were longer because as it was it only was as long as their legs. "And I like these times," he murmured.

"Hm?"

"Where we just sit quietly. I know you're not a fan of silence, but it can be… comforting, when someone is there with you."

Edward put his glasses on the laptop and turned into Jonathan, and _finally_ Jonathan put an arm around his shoulders. He didn't know if Jonathan had space enough to read his book but he didn't care. He wanted attention and he was going to get it while he had a chance.

Jonathan was smelling his hair again.

"And that's why we do it, isn't it," Jonathan murmured. "We go through all the frustration and the struggle and the pain just to know there is someone willing to keep us close when the night falls."

That was such a nice way to put it.

"Thank you," Jonathan said.

He still wasn't sure if Jonathan was being genuine. Some part of him still believed this was all a lie, a long-term experiment Jonathan had enacted so he could break him down at the end and ridicule him for being so foolish. Maybe it wasn't really love. Who knew right now, but who cared. Pretending it was felt pretty good.

* * *

 **Author's note**

 **Yeah, Eddie can't believe it's the truth so easily. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't.**

 **What I said in the previous note still stands. It's up to you whether you believe Jonathan loves him or whether he just thinks of him as something new he wants to hang onto.**


	19. Part the Nineteenth

Part the Nineteenth

"Edward."

"Hm?" He must have fallen asleep again. The last thing he remembered was having to come inside in the middle of the night because even Jonathan had gotten too cold in the truck bed with just the one blanket.

"Put your clothes on and get going. Hurry."

"What?" He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. Jonathan was doing something with his chemistry equipment.

"The damn tenants called the GCPD on me."

"They know who you are?" A stupid question, in retrospect, but his head was still fuzzy with sleep.

"It would seem." Jonathan threw his socks into his lap. "Now hurry _up_ , Edward!"

"I'm going, I'm going." He pulled on the rest of his clothes, though not as nicely as he'd have liked. "Why am I going myself?"

"I don't know if they know who you are. No point in the both of us getting caught. Go."

Edward rubbed at his eyes, struggling to wake up. He might get out of the basement, but he wouldn't be going very far if he didn't get the haze out of his brain. He got over to the doorway, blinking hard, and turned back to face Jonathan. He was briskly rolling up a pile of papers and securing them with a loop of the brown twine he used for his costumes. He held them out to Edward.

"Try to get these out of here. This is a vein of research as yet incomplete and I don't want it countered beforehand."

Edward nodded, yawning, and pushed the papers into his jacket. Jonathan handed him the revolver and pulled his mask over his head.

"Now get _going_ , Edward!"

Edward did so, tucking the firearm into his belt and running for the alley. He didn't know what was in there, but hopefully no police. He wished he hadn't taken the pickup apart because driving would have been a much easier way of escape. Then again, it wasn't as though Jonathan's truck was nondescript.

It was dark in the alley still though it must have been noon or so; he had to squint and feel his way along the brick. Only until he realised he was wearing _his_ glasses, and not those of the Asylum; then he turned on the night-vision lenses and walked faster. When he reached the mouth of the alley he looked around the wall carefully. If the tenants upstairs had called the GCPD about the Scarecrow, it was a safe bet that the Bat would be somewhere nearby. He had to get rid of Jonathan's papers so they could be retrieved later. If the Detective caught him with them, Jonathan's research would have to be scrapped entirely.

He ended up removing his gloves and stuffing the papers into them, then burying them in a soft corner of dirt in someone's backyard. Hopefully they wouldn't be dug up, shallow as they were, and with equal luck the gloves would protect them from the elements for a while. Once he'd finished he kept running. His property was a good ten minutes from his location at least.

Unfortunately, he didn't make it that far, because a living shadow unfolded itself from a corner and stepped in front of him. Edward yelped and fell over backwards. Not his finest moment. His hand fumbled for the gun tucked into his belt.

"Nygma," the Bat said. "I'd been wondering where you went."

Edward was too busy trying to catch his breath to respond. The Bat stepped forward, extending a hand. Edward held the gun out in front of him, clasped in two hands he was appalled to see were trembling.

"Don't."

"Or else what?" Edward spat. He was far too close to safely get off a round, but he wasn't just going to roll over and _surrender_.

"You've never crossed this line before, Edward," the Bat told him. "You don't need to cross it now."

But maybe he _did_ need to cross it. Maybe now was the time.

 _"Killing a man merely tells you something you may or may not want to know about yourself."_ That was what Jonathan had said. If he fired this gun, now, it was because he intended to kill someone. To kill the Bat himself. And if by some wild miracle he _did it_ , he _killed him_ , what would that tell Edward about himself? What would his mere _intent_ tell him? Did he want to know?

Well, of course he did. But the Bat was standing too close and he was unlikely to politely move back a few feet so Edward could get a shot off. From where he was standing, he was just going to hit some facet of the body armour and injure himself with the ricochet. That would just be _stupid._

It took another handful of seconds to make his decision. He didn't _want_ to press the weapon into the Bat's waiting hand, but he didn't have a choice! And there was really no reason to get himself pounded into the dirt when the Detective was being so unusually reasonable. When he offered the other hand to help Edward up, he took it.

After he'd been brought to standing the Bat took his arm at the elbow, though he was barely touching him, and led him back down the street. They walked for some minutes before Edward asked, "Just where did you park it this time, anyway?" The Batmobile wasn't usually so much of a trek.

"We're going the long way," the Detective answered. "If you and Scarecrow are brought in at the same time, questions will be raised that not even you will want to answer. Especially considering you shared a cell for many months and escaped that cell together."

When he put it like that, Edward had to admit going the long way sounded like a good idea.

The Bat released his arm a minute or so later. When they finally arrived at the armoured car, he was gestured into the front, rather than the back. Though this made Edward a mite suspicious, he climbed into the front. When the Bat had seated himself he paused in reaching for something below the steering column. "Arms at your sides," he said, so Edward uncrossed them. Before the Bat had moved his hands onto the wheel they had both been secured into their seats with automatic harnesses. "Fancy," Edward remarked, inspecting the harness as best he could, and he thought that, maybe, the Bat _almost_ smiled.

"It gets the job done. There are a few things on the way back to the Asylum to be taken care of. You'll behave yourself?"

"Don't I always?" Edward answered with one of his most dazzling smiles - or at least _he_ thought so - but the Bat remained unfazed so he followed it up with a less enthusiastic, "Yes."

"Good," was all the Bat said to that, and they sat in silence after. Edward spent the time he was gone inspecting everything he could see. Truth be told it was too dark for him to see very much, even with his night vision, but the only alternative was to feel his way across the dashboard and he didn't want to give the Bat an excuse to send him unconscious.

"You're being… kind today," Edward noted, after the Bat had resumed driving for a while and he recognized the outline of the Asylum on the horizon. He could feel those hidden eyes on him.

"You haven't done anything you need to be subdued for," the Bat said finally. "You escaped the Asylum and committed no crime. You are, comparatively, innocent." The intensity of his hidden stare seemed to magnify. "Though if you did something other than hide in a basement with Scarecrow, I _will_ know about it sooner or later, Edward."

"I didn't!" Edward protested, wide eyes on the driver's seat and one hand spread. "I did nothing!" Well, he _had_ worked on his property a time or two, but that was hardly a crime, was it? He did own it. Sort of.

When the Bat pulled up in front of the Asylum gate, he didn't immediately disengage the engine or even really indicate he was going to leave the car. Edward side-eyed him as inconspicuously as possible, and a few moments later the Bat said,

"Stay away from Jonathan Crane."

"… what?" Did he think he was Edward's _babysitter_ or something? Did he really think Edward was _actually_ going to _listen_ to him?

"Stay away from him. He's worse than you know."

Oh, _seriously_. Edward wasn't going to drop things between them just on the word of a man dressed like a nighttime mammal. Jonathan was a once-in-a-lifetime happenstance, and he knew this because he'd never met anyone even _remotely_ like him in his entire life. Jonathan had the extremely rare quality of being both intelligent _and_ wise, and Edward was not likely to come across _that_ again.

"Remember, Edward. Your imprisonment is based on cybercrime. It's largely victimless. Crane has killed on a mass scale. Crane has _tortured_ people for the sake of his twisted experiments."

But all _that_ meant was that Jonathan had even _more_ to teach him than he'd realised. Jonathan had been the first one he'd even _considered_ learning anything from since he was very young; he would be a _fool_ to give it all up now. He'd already known Jonathan had killed before, and he knew a little bit of what that torture must have been like firsthand. And though the toxin had been horrible, and the entire experience somewhat fruitless, it had nonetheless made him _stronger_. Jonathan had said he'd been brave to do it, and he _had_ been.

Jonathan could teach him as no one else could, and Jonathan _respected_ him as no one else had even when Edward had been somewhat on the straight and narrow. Oh no. Oh no no no, Edward was _not_ allowing the opportunity that was Jonathan to slip away. Maybe the things Edward had yet to learn from him were not necessarily _good_ things, but he didn't care. He just needed to know. Knowledge was neither good nor evil until implemented for either use. Knowledge was impartial, and beautiful, and Jonathan had it in ways Edward would never see again.

For one second, to quell the nagging thought that perhaps the Bat's words had merit, he entertained the notion of walking away. Of modifying the cell assignments, of shoring himself up with somebody else and relinquishing contact with Jonathan entirely. But that would mean the end of all the clever conversations, of Jonathan's hand stealing around his waist, of being _understood_ as only Jonathan had. And it would mean, too, spelling the end of Jonathan's ability to trust. He had given that to Edward, and _only_ Edward, and if Edward took that away from him…

It would kill some part of Jonathan that he had already tried to cut out of himself. Jonathan had given to Edward the last vestiges of things he considered his weaknesses. It was a trust Edward would never glimpse again. Jonathan had allowed Edward to soften him, to pause his intentions to become autonomous above all else, and perhaps none of this should have mattered at all, but… Edward could not throw that away. He couldn't. If he was going to end their relationship, it would be out of mutual respect. A decision made by both of them. Not one suggested by a brutish vigilante and implemented by an Edward whose actions would summarily spell out his demise. Jonathan would hardly let him live after such blatant disrespect. He admired and respected Jonathan too much to walk away now. And he craved the day they could be as equals, but how would they ever do that if Edward gave it all up?

And he sat there, thinking of the pros and cons of staying… but in the end, all that really mattered was that he didn't want to. He liked Jonathan, and he had _so_ much to learn from him, and he made Jonathan happy. It was a factor he had never really considered in his relations to other people before, but for this _one_ person… yes. Yes, it was important. Maybe they weren't _good_ for each other. But being _good_ or not had nothing to do with it. If it was what they wanted, they were going to have it.

"You should have told him to stay away from me," Edward said.

The Bat said nothing more as he took Edward into the Asylum, and Edward got the impression he was disappointed. But not with Edward.

* * *

After the tedious hour of security checks and sign in procedures Edward was sent back to his cell, and he felt no small measure of relief to see that Jonathan was there. This was soon replaced by concern, as Jonathan was lying on his side, facing the wall.

"Hey old man," Edward said, sitting down behind him and putting a hand on his shoulder. Jonathan turned enough to look at him. Fatigue lined every inch of his face and he had the beginnings of a very bad black eye. Edward winced.

"They got you pretty good, eh?"

"Wasn't them," Jonathan said tiredly. "When afraid, people usually do one of two things: cower in fear or lash out. One of the tenants decided on the latter and hit me in the face."

"Ouch," Edward said.

"I blacked out for a second. By the time I was able to orient myself, I was on the ground with a knee between my shoulder blades and in the process of being restrained."

"With zip ties," Edward said, aghast at the heavy cuts on Jonathan's wrists. Jonathan nodded and turned fully onto his side again.

"With zip ties."

"Brutes," Edward muttered. His hand gripped the edge of the mattress with force. "Who was it?"

Jonathan shifted into his back, pain marring his face for a moment. "I didn't see who it was." He smiled wearily. "Why? Are you going to beat him up for me?"

"Something like that," Edward answered, making a note to look up the police report at his earliest convenience. Obviously he wouldn't do anything as senselessly violent as beating the man, but he'd think of something prudent. Jonathan put a hand on his back.

"Please tell me you got the research to a safe place."

"I buried it in someone's backyard," Edward assured him. "It should be safe there, for a while at least."

"Excellent," Jonathan murmured. He rubbed at Edward's back a little. Edward had no idea why, but it felt nice so he wasn't going to put a stop to it. "And the Bat did you no harm, I hope?"

"No." The expression he turned to Jonathan was sombre. "He… took his time bringing me here because he didn't want anyone to get ideas."

Jonathan quirked his eyebrows. "I'm glad to know our relationship has been endorsed by the Bat himself."

Well. Jonathan didn't _need_ to know the rest of it. "Probably just hopes one of us will keep the other out of trouble."

"You? Keep out of trouble? I doubt it." He closed his eyes, looking pained. "We're not allowed out of here for a while, are we."

"Nope." Jonathan's hand had disappeared from his back, to his chagrin. "What is it you wanted?"

"Something to eat would be nice."

"I can do that but not for another hour or so."

Jonathan made a face but didn't say anything else about it.

When Edward thought it was safe he slipped out of the cell and made himself and Jonathan ham and cheese sandwiches with food stolen from one of the pantries downstairs. From one of the staff rooms he managed to get Jonathan a cup of coffee, though he had to make do with instant this time. Hopefully he didn't care what kind it was, so long as it existed.

"Jonathan," Edward whispered when he returned, unsure if he had fallen asleep or not. Jonathan looked at him immediately, which didn't really tell him anything.

"What?"

He held out one of the sandwiches and the coffee, and Jonathan sat up.

"You are so very useful, Edward. I'm pleased I selected you as my sidekick."

" _Sidekick_?" Edward almost dropped the half of his sandwich he had left in his hand. Jonathan just smiled at him and said,

"The shorter one is always the – "

Edward didn't have to hear the rest before he pinned Jonathan to the bed by way of his forearms. He wasn't so annoyed that he'd take him by the wrists. The difference was only _three inches!_ "Jonathan, you – "

"Is this supposed to put me _off_ of teasing you?" Jonathan asked, laughing. "Because I think this is the _exact_ opposite of what you should be doing. Or perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it. No, I take that back. Please, Edward, continue. I'm terrified of your wrath. Please pin me to the mattress some more."

Edward frowned and let go, kneeling back on the mattress in irritation. A pretty big part of him didn't actually _want_ to be irritated, but he couldn't allow Jonathan to get away with that so easily. Jonathan sat up again and took a bite of his sandwich, which he was still holding in his right hand. "Oh, Edward, you are fun," he said, mostly to himself.

"And you're an ass," Edward said.

"I wasn't aware this was a new development."

It really wasn't, but Edward didn't want to admit to that, so he just sat with his legs crossed and shoulders hunched as Jonathan ate the sandwich. He did so very slowly, taking generous gulps of coffee in between each bite. When he was finished some minutes later, Edward took the cup and went back downstairs. When he sat down on Jonathan's bed for a third time he handed him what he'd brought back and set his attention to opening his own.

"What's this?" Jonathan asked, unwrapping it while he did so. Edward rolled his eyes but answered,

"A Popsicle. I hope you like grape. That's all there was left."

"You have a chocolate one," Jonathan noted, or perhaps pointed out. Edward honestly didn't know if Jonathan liked chocolate or not.

"It was the last one. And chocolate is my guilty pleasure."

"I thought _I_ was your guilty pleasure."

With that, all of Edward's animosity towards him was gone. He smiled.

"No no, Jonathan, the pleasure I get from you is _anything_ but guilty." He bit off a piece of the dessert. "All chocolate does for me is go straight to my waist."

"Do you know how much _work_ I'd have to do to get a waist like yours," Jonathan said, sounding annoyed.

"You might be able to start on one if you eat more than once every two days." Edward finished the treat with a little reluctance. He hadn't had chocolate in quite a while, but he didn't want it to melt into a sticky mess all over his fingers.

Jonathan sighed. "It's not that easy, Edward. As you just saw. I lost my appetite a long time ago and I've yet to get it back." He slid about half of the Popsicle back into the wrapper. "And… I've had enough of this. It's very sweet."

"Right," Edward said, taking it and putting his own sticks alongside the melting dessert. He was a little annoyed with himself for not realising it would be too much sugar for a man who drank his coffee black. He turned around to get off the bed, his back to Jonathan, who put a hand on his shoulder. Edward glanced behind him.

"Thank you," he said softly, and the feeling Edward got when their eyes met was so intense that he forgot where he was for a moment. He wasn't sure exactly what the feeling was. Caring, and reassurance, and… gratitude, maybe.

"That wasn't all he said," Edward found himself saying, as though whatever had passed between them had bestowed on him some wild urge to be blindly honest, and Jonathan's brow creased as he sat back against the wall.

"All who said?"

"He told me to stay away from you. Because of what you've done." Might as well tell him all of it.

Jonathan folded his hands in his lap. "You already know what I've done."

Edward wondered why he'd felt the need to say that. It had just made things awkward.

"I told you. If you want to go, then go. I will be disappointed, but I am not going to chase you down and beg you to reconsider. I know what I am. I'm not ashamed of it. I didn't think you were, either."

"I'm not!"

"But what he said bothered you."

"Not because I was ashamed." He found he was gripping the remains of Jonathan's popsicle tightly enough to stain his own hands purple. "Because… you took a risk, with a lot of what you've shared with me. It wouldn't be fair."

Jonathan was regarding him in that evaluating way which was unfortunately more unnerving than thrilling at this moment. He wished he would stop. He felt as though he'd done something wrong, and he hadn't, had he? He'd made the right decision. He wanted this. He wasn't going to end it just because Jonathan had killed some people once, and would have no qualms against doing it again.

"That's very considerate of you," Jonathan said thoughtfully. "One might say… uncharacteristic."

"One might," Edward mumbled, and he went to get up again. This was something he did not want to talk about right now.

Edward had to leave a third time to dispose of the evidence, though he brought Jonathan back a glass of water. He was lying down with his eyes closed again when Edward got back, but when Edward poked him and gestured with the glass he accepted it and drank half of the water in one swallow. He handed the glass back.

"That's – "

"You have the rest," Jonathan interrupted. "You haven't had anything to drink at all."

Edward was getting tired and didn't feel like arguing, so he drank it and put the glass underneath the bed. He climbed onto the bed next to Jonathan, who started to pull himself to sitting against the rail, but Edward shook his head and pushed his shoulders down. "You're the one who got punched in the face. It's your turn."

Jonathan didn't argue, only took off his glasses and settled his head into Edward's lap. Almost of their own volition, Edward's hands found their way through his hair. It was badly in need of several doses of conditioner. Or maybe it wasn't. If Jonathan wanted it like that, and it wasn't really _bothersome_ … it was fine the way it was.

"Edward," Jonathan said in a low voice, putting his hand over the one Edward had left on his shoulder, "I did honestly want you to get away, but at the same time… I'm glad you're here."

"Thanks, Jon," Edward said simply.

* * *

 **Author's note**

 **So Edward in this story is about twenty-four and Jonathan is going on thirty-five. Since the story is told from Edward's perspective, Edward believes what he chooses to believe, one of these things being that an experienced master career manipulator would never manipulate him (except in areas Edward expects him to, such as the whole love situation). He also, in his arrogant youth, believes Jonathan is the One and Only person who will ever understand him, ever, much like young people will declare their first significant other to be The One to anyone who will listen. And what I mean by this is that Edward isn't really as in control of their relationship as he thinks he is. He has been roped in a little by a Jonathan who accidentally roped himself in; they have mistakenly manipulated each other into a relationship and now they're just gonna see where it goes because they like each other's company.  
**

 **Also yes I did change Edward's height to that of canon; for the AU fics it won't change but as pertaining to the Arkhamverse series it didn't feel right not to have him as tall as listed. I'll have to go back and fix some stuff.**


	20. Part the Twentieth

Part the Twentieth

When they were removed from their cell three days later, Edward was directed someplace other than Jonathan, who regarded with him a puzzled look he was unable to answer. They were supposed to be going to group. Had they been found out and were now in the process of separation? He thought he would have heard about that. Keeping a relationship between two inmates was near impossible, and there was not a chance the two would have been allowed to remain in the same cell if someone knew about it.

"Oh no, Nygma," the guard gripping his bicep said, "someone wanted to check up on you after your recent reincarceration."

Oh.

It seemed today was set to be ruined, then. He resigned himself to following along quietly.

He was directed to one of the nicer visiting areas this time, where the chairs actually still had foam padding to sit on and the plexiglass barrier was not drenched in fingerprints. He sighed and sat down, folding his hands together in his lap. Hopefully this wouldn't take long. Group was a torturous, agonising hour of listening to people he couldn't care less about, but he would rather be there wishing he could puncture his own ear drums with a blunt needle than be here wishing –

"Welcome home, Ed," his father said, seating himself down as well, and Edward pressed his thumbs together in an attempt to keep himself calm.

"Thanks," he said sardonically. "They kept my bed warm for me."

"That sounds like a waste of my hard-earned tax dollars."

"You don't _pay_ _taxes_ ," Edward told him snidely. "You can't even read a tax form. Not even if it read itself _to_ you."

His father put his folded hands onto the counter in front of him. "That's not very polite, now is it?"

"Do you _deserve_ my courtesy?" Edward folded his arms now and sat back. "Or is what you did to me considered _polite_ parenting?"

His father was frowning, just a little, and Edward had to say he was wondering _himself_ where this was coming from. He found himself less _anxious_ about this visit than he was _bored_. Because really, his father didn't even _know_ him anymore. All he had to go on was the same old, same old from his childhood or whatever it was he saw in the newspaper, and truly neither of those really _were_ Edward. There was only _one_ person who knew him. Only one person who had ever _cared_ to –

A _ha_!

Now he understood.

His father was saying something, a variation on what he'd already heard and no longer had any emotional investment in, and… he was unsure of why he ever had in the first place. Now that he knew Jonathan, his past upsets based on his father's behaviour seemed… silly. His father didn't respect him, or value him; hell, he'd never even really _taught_ Edward anything.

But Jonathan had.

Jonathan was a mentor, friend, father figure, and partner all rolled up in one! Who _cared_ what his father had to say about something he'd done ten years ago when _Jonathan_ could talk about something he'd done _today_! And he wouldn't just baselessly insult Edward's actions, no, he would relate the _reasons_ behind them and help Edward to improve on them if that was what he wanted. He didn't _need_ to care what his father said anymore, because Jonathan _cared_ what Edward said…

Jonathan cared so much, in fact, he would kill Edward's father if he asked. If Edward changed his mind, and said he wanted it done, Jonathan would do it. That was as close to a selfless gesture that Edward had known in his entire lifetime. Sure, Jonathan _might_ want to do it because he hated Edward's father and not because his effect on Edward… but it wasn't really the intention that mattered, was it? It was the act.

He didn't know if Jonathan loved him, or if he could really love the man back. But he did know that he wanted to try. And he _definitely_ knew who he owed more of his time and respect to.

He stood up.

"Where do you think you're going?" his father demanded, and Edward laughed.

"I have nothing more to say to you. And _you_ haven't had anything new to say to me in years. But know this: you were wrong. You were wrong then, and you're wrong now, and you'll always _be_ wrong. About everything." And he stepped back from the barrier, the reflection of the confused guard behind him indicating he wasn't quite certain what to do about this development, though he ultimately decided to put one hand lightly around Edward's forearm. He led him most of the way down the Asylum to his cell, but stopped by the guard station to discuss with someone there, probably about whether to send him to group or to have him stay in his cell for the extra time. Well, he had something to take care of so _he_ wasn't sticking around there waiting. An alarm might be raised, that was true, but he would just blame it on the oh so incompetent man who had left him standing in the hallway by himself. Could anyone really blame him for being bored enough to wander off?

He had no plans to go to group, but there was a hallway nearabouts he could hide in until Jonathan was released from it. It shouldn't be too long. He hoped it wasn't, anyway, because he had to tell Jonathan this excellent news as soon as possible. Jonathan had special therapy midway through group, because of how _smart_ he was…

God, he was so perfect.

About five minutes later he _did_ spy Jonathan walking down the hallway, whoever was supposed to be watching him about three metres back and talking to someone else. So when Jonathan got within his reach he snatched up the man's arm and pulled him into the darker side hallway where he was, pressing him up against the wall and kissing him with fervour. Jonathan began to turn away at first, his hands around Edward's upper arms with a quite surprising strength, until he realised what was going on and whipped _Edward_ against the wall, pinning his arms to it with that same iron force. Edward had made him drop the demeanour and that alone was almost as satisfying as Jonathan's hungry mouth. After a moment he seemed to realise what he was doing and stepped back, taking a long breath.

"I… seem to have gotten carried away again," he said, though this time there was no artifice to be had. He had gotten carried away because Edward had _wanted_ him to, and to this thought Edward only smiled.

"Not to worry," he told Jonathan, brushing one finger lightly along the middle of his upper lip, "I have now solved that problem."

Jonathan was still standing farther away than Edward would have preferred, but at least he was still holding onto his arms. "You were sent to see your father, then."

Edward nodded, a little more excitedly than he wanted to. But hell, it had been long in coming.

"So you stood up to him."

"I did."

Jonathan disappointingly took one hand off of his arm, though he used it to gently trace Edward's jawline in a way that sent a tingling through his skin. And he smiled, just a little, and said, "I knew you could do it. I'm proud of you."

Everything Edward had been feeling up to then was summarily replaced by shock, and all he could do for a moment was stare at Jonathan with every part of him frozen. When his throat ceased being numb he managed, "You are?"

It was only when Jonathan used the hand he'd placed alongside his face to clear his eyes with one roughened thumb that Edward realised he'd teared up. How _embarrassing_. He looked away and hoped that would fix itself quickly.

"No one's ever told me that before," he mumbled.

"And I am honoured to be the first," Jonathan told him softly.

Edward didn't care if he meant it, didn't care if he was being honest or not. The motivation didn't change the fact that he'd needed to hear it.

He used the arm Jonathan had relinquished to reach up and pull his head down, and Jonathan did not resist. Maybe Edward's kiss was a little too desperate, a little too needy, but as always Jonathan only answered him with a reassurance only wisdom could provide. There were a _lot_ of things Edward needed that only Jonathan could provide, and come to think of it… the reverse was just as true.

It was, honestly, the best relationship Edward had ever been in.

"Aren't you two supposed to be _enemies_?"

They both looked down the hall to the one Edward had pulled Jonathan from, and standing there at the mouth was one of the stockier janitorial staff. She was standing there with her mouth open.

"We get along," Jonathan shrugged, and Edward leaned back against the wall and laughed. Yes, that was what they were doing. Getting along.

The woman scurried off, no doubt to tell someone of her discovery, and Jonathan turned back to him. "I suppose that's it, then," he said with resignation. "Once she tells her superiors –"

Edward interrupted with a shake of his head. "Not at all. If we're where we're supposed to be within the next couple minutes, people will just think her confusing reality with the fanfiction she read last night. The poor sleep deprived staff, not able to sort fact from fiction."

"There's fanfiction about us?" Jonathan sounded more curious than put off by this news. Edward shrugged.

"There might be. I haven't looked yet. Some of the stuff about me is pretty good, actually." He kissed Jonathan's cheek. "Now, you're the one with an appointment. Hurry up and get to it before they lock down the place."

Jonathan put a firm hand to Edward's shoulder for a moment, then set off. He managed to return to his cell unseen - something he was quite skilled at, of course - and by the time someone came to check that he was where he should be, he was already lying back on his bed with his ankle crossed over his knee, thoughtfully regarding the ceiling. He had no doubt Jonathan had arrived at his appointment with some suitable excuse, or perhaps subtle threat, and that they would be continuing on as usual. Sure enough, something hit the back of his head at dinner and three rows back was Jonathan, studiously disinterested in actually eating his food. It was a signal, Edward knew, that everything was fine.

He still was unsure of what they were, exactly – this relationship was his longest and most fitting yet, but it also came with an amount of baggage on both sides he was unsure he had the capacity to deal with – but he did want to know. If he walked away because he was afraid, he would never know. And it was _because_ of Jonathan he'd been able to face some of the things he'd been afraid of. Commitment. His father. How much _better_ could he become, with Jonathan to guide him?

It might have been the first time he'd admitted to himself he could improve with someone else's help. If _that_ didn't tell him to stick with Jonathan, he didn't know what would.

And Jonathan loved him. Had actually _said_ it, along with demonstrating it, as no one ever had before. Nothing could replace that. And he cared about Jonathan, in a way _he_ had never cared for anyone before, and he didn't know if he was ready to put the word love to it just yet – which was another of his personal hang-ups that Jonathan could help him with, if he wanted – but it made sense. And he wanted it to. He wanted it to make so much sense he never, ever had to wonder if it didn't.

"Hey Jon," he whispered into the dark that night, "it sure was better you ended up here than downstairs, eh?"

"Edward, if you hadn't noticed - which I know you did - I am trying to sleep."

"It's one yes or no question."

"With you, it's never just one question."

"It is this time!" He sat up. "This is better, right?"

Jonathan sighed. "Come here."

So Edward crossed the floor and sat down on the bed next to Jonathan, who put an arm around him and closed his eyes again. But he said nothing, so Edward asked, "Jon?"

"I already answered it," Jonathan said, and... come to think of it, he had.

They were lying there quietly, though Edward did have to make a strong effort to remain that way himself, and Jonathan's thumb was running up and down his arm very softly. It had made his skin crawl a little at first, because Jonathan's hands were even more unkempt than the rest of him, but after that had passed it felt nice. Being with Jonathan at all felt nice. It would be a sad day indeed when they were separated, which would happen eventually. The Asylum periodically underwent renovations that were never quite finished, and there was one in the works for soon. They'd all be shuffled elsewhere and Edward would have to find someplace quiet and secret for them to meet for a few hours before Edward became too tired to stay there any longer. And he'd do that when it came to it. For now, he'd enjoy what they had.

"But yes," Jonathan said, absently. "It is better."

Edward couldn't decide which of them had been the more fortunate.

 **Author's note**

 **This is more of an epilogue than a final chapter, sorry. I just didn't have anything else to put in it that hadn't already been said.**

 **That out of the way, thank you and congratulations for finishing the story! Can you tell I thought of that last part of this fic first? I'm glad you all enjoyed it and thank you especially to those who commented and discussed aspects of the story with me. There will be more to the series as a whole but don't ask when because I don't know.**

 **Have a wonderful day!**


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